The night air in Puerto Rico was soft and warm when Felix and Rio pulled into the lot beside the old open-air stadium on the edge of San Juan. Corrugated-metal roof over half-the crowd, strings of bare lights draped across rafters, and concrete bleachers below. It felt humble, local, alive.
Rio slipped her hand in his as they walked through the gate. "Can't believe we get to see The Mary Janes live," she said, excitement bright in her voice. "I don't know why I haven't gone to see a concert yet."
"What have you been doing?" Felix joked.
"Mostly shopping and, you know, family stuff."
Felix smiled. The neon sign over the entry — "Tonight: The Mary Janes" — fractured in the glow of string-lights.
They found seats near the front but off-center. Jagged, leaning slightly to one side, the kind of place where you feel part of the crowd but not crushed by it. Fans milled around: dyed hair, leather jackets, Converse boots. A teenage girl nearby clutched a crumpled lyric sheet. Rio nudged Felix's leg and grinned. The Mary Janes were more for younger people.
Lights dimmed. The stage was simple: three mic stands, a drum riser, keyboards set left. A hush fell, and then a single spotlight hit the center.
From the darkness, a voice.
"Puerto Rico! Make some noise!"
The crowd roared. Then she stepped into the light: Mary Jane Watson, guitar slung low. She towered over the mic, her red hair catching the blur of lights, her presence feeling physically charismatic. Behind her, Glory Grant eased onto the keyboards; Betty Brant gripped her bass. The drumbeats began.
First song — new, raw, electric. The crowd matched beat for beat, hands raised, energy roaring. Then the chords of "Face-It Tiger" ripped through.
Rio clapped her hands together, tilting her head side to side while everyone else screamed like crazy. It was amusing to see.
MJ belted the first verse:
"There's no use crying over pinpricks!
Don't fight the name if the name fits!
You're doing good, think that you could do better!
Wanna crack your skull, get to the heart of the matter!"
The guitar chords crashed like waves. On stage, Glory's fingers danced across keys, Betty's bass thumped deep, and MJ's fierce voice carried across the stadium.
"You've gotta face it tiger, face it tiger!
It's all you got!
You've gotta face it tiger, face it tiger!
It's your last shot!"
Around them, the crowd screamed back. Rio clapped and laughed. Felix's arms wrapped around her.
Somewhere in the blur of stage lights and smoke, Felix saw someone else; tall, thin, guitar strapped across his shoulder walking onto the stage with MJ's band for a riff. His hair was in wicks, dark; his body moved with a loose energy. At first, Felix thought it was a random session musician, but the posture, the guitar case, the way the audience turned to greet him… he recognized him.
'Hobie Brown…?'
So this was where he wounded up? Felix squinted 'Herbie, confirm that it's Hobie—'
Rio jostled him with a hip bump, mostly by accident. Felix didn't react at first. He glanced at Rio, wanting Herbie to follow up on his request. But seeing her smile…
'Maybe I should relax a little. Hobie isn't a bad guy. Although, I mean, it is a little suspicious that he's here with Mary Jane Watson of all people.'
Regardless, he tried to relax. He really did, smiling with Rio as Hobie slung a hurried riff under MJ's last chorus, fingers dancing over strings. The crowd loved it.
When the last note faded, the roar of approval hit them like a wave. Lights dimmed again; the band bowed; the stage darkened. The next song played.
The whole concert took a good two hours. It was a fun time. He and Rio bought hot dogs to fill up their stomachs, and after that, a small glass of wine.
Moments later, as the crowd surged toward exits and neon-lit food carts, a security guard appeared beside them. Mid-30s, sober uniform, clipboard with official seals from the event organizers.
"Sir, ma'am," he said politely. "The band manager requests two VIPs to see the band backstage. We checked your tickets—special passes. Looks like you've been selected."
Rio's eyes lit up. "Me? Us?"
The guard nodded. "Both of you. Please follow me."
She turned to Felix, smile wide and excited. "Well, would you look at that — want to get high-class drunk after a show?"
Felix shrugged. "Why not?"
Rio brightened.
They followed the guard through a narrow corridor behind the stage, the thrum of PA equipment humming through walls, cables snaking high. Door after door, past broken water bottles and empty instrument cases, until at last they stood before a black steel door marked PRIVATE – ARTISTS ONLY.
The guard rapped and a red light flashed. The steel lock clicked and the door swung open. First impressions, it was smelly. It smelled of sweat, stale beer, and cigarette smoke, underscored by the metallic thrum of amplifiers cooling down. Cables snaked across the floor like black vines. There were make-up tables with mirrors, occupied by the women that were evidently not Mary Jane.
Mary Jane herself, see, was in the center of the room, perched on a battered amp.
She was topless, a grey vest hanging open and doing absolutely nothing to conceal her breasts or the necklace laid between. A cigarette smoldered between her fingers. Her fiery red hair was damp with sweat, plastered to her neck and forehead. She was laughing at something the keyboardist, Glory Grant, was saying, her head thrown back.
Then the redhead's eyes, bright and shockingly green, landed on them in the doorway. The laugh died on her lips, replaced by a slow, wide, and deeply knowing smile.
"Well, I'll be damned," Mary Jane drawled, her voice a little rough from the performance. She slid off the amp, stubbing her cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray, and started toward them. She moved with a languid, predatory grace that made the crowded room seem to part for her. Her gaze was locked solely on Felix.
Rio's hand, still in his, tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Felix baby," MJ called out, stopping just inches from him. The scent of tobacco and her perfume—something expensive and floral—enveloped him. "I thought that was you in the front row. Couldn't believe my eyes." Without waiting for a response, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around him in a tight, familiar hug. Her bare skin was warm and slightly damp against his shirt. She held the embrace a beat too long, whispering directly into his ear. "Best night of my goddamn life."
Rio did a double-take. She didn't quite hear what she said but it wasn't like the rockstar's body language was hiding her intentions.
Mary Jane pulled back, her hands sliding down his arms before letting go. Her eyes flicked to Rio, acknowledging her presence for the first time with a polite, tipsy nod before snapping back to Felix. "What are you doing in Puerto Rico? Last I heard, you were…"
She hardly knew him. They had a one-night stand and nothing more.
"I was working," Felix said.
"Right, working. Whatever you do for work." Mary Jane looked like she wanted to ask, "What was that again?"
From a worn velvet couch against the wall, Hobie unfolded himself from the couch, setting his guitar carefully in its case. He was all lean muscle and relaxed posture. He gave Felix a slow, appraising nod. "Yo. Nice to see ya again. And this time with attire."
Yeah. Thank god.
Hobie continued, "Didn't peg you for a punk show, mate. Figured you for… I dunno. A symphony guy."
Felix chuckled. "Good to see you too. And, well, no, not into symphonies."
Was it a coincidence that he was here with Gwen Stacy's best friend and former bandmate? He did say he owed her, but wasn't that favour over. What was this about then?
"World's full of surprises," Hobie said with a shrug, but his eyes were sharp, missing nothing. They darted to Rio, who was standing stiffly beside Felix, a polite and bewildered smile frozen on her face. Hobie let out a low, understanding sigh, the sound practically dripping with amused exasperation. He took a deliberate step toward Mary Jane, inserting himself smoothly behind her.
"Right then, MJ." Hobie grabbed the redhead by the shoulders and reeled her back. "You look like you could use a proper drink, one that hasn't been sweated on by a hundred strangers. Let's find the good stuff the manager hides for himself, yeah?"
Mary Jane rolled her eyes as she was dragged and forced to sit at a make-up table. Rio went on her toes and whispered to Felix, "You know these people?"
"I…kinda," he whispered back. "Hobie does science work and Mary Jane…"
"Ex girlfriend?"
His response was a stammer, "Ex…hook-up."
Rio nodded and let out an, "Oooh." She didn't seem offended. She was a married woman after all, not to mention they did have an agreement considering his amplified libido. He was Spider-Man, he could leap through buildings, stop buses with his bare hands, and fuck for—no exaggeration—dozens of hours with his healing factor. No ordinary woman could handle all that. Sate all that. So yeah, Rio wasn't offended, she understood.
But still, wow. Her? A celebrity? It felt surreal. Aside from Felix revealing himself as Spider-Man, Rio had never encountered a celebrity.
"Guess it's true about rockstars," Rio whispered in his ear, on her toes, "the ladies are kinda crazy."
Agreed. Very agreed. 'Very crazy.'
From across, Mary Jane accepted a bottle of water from Hobie. She took a long sip and then spun on her chair to fixate on Felix and his partner.
"So, enjoy the show?" Mary Jane asked, bottle popping off her lips. "Not my best work. Pretty hot out here."
"Oh, um," Rio decided to be the one to speak, "have you been to Puerto Rico before?"
"Nah, never. I tend to limit my gigs to America." The redhead jabbed a thumb at Hobie who stood with his arms crossed. "Until this guy showed up. Surprisingly well-connected and good at music."
Hobie followed her look and rolled his eyes heavenward. "'Ere we go," he muttered, just loud enough for Rio to hear. "Trust me, her manager was just shit. Sorry, is shit."
"Sorry, not sorry, but I'm not firing her."
Meanwhile, Betty Brant, the bassist, went from her make-up table to the chair and table. Gloria Grant did the same. The two idly flipped through channels on a small, static-riddled TV mounted high in the corner. The tinny sound of a commercial jingle filled a brief silence.
"So Felix." MJ got up, smirking. Undeterred, she put her hands on her pocket and very openly parted her jacket. "If you're ever looking to… re-form the band, so to speak… my schedule's suddenly very open. My place is just up the coast. Private beach. Very… soundproof. And, hm…" She gestured lazily at Rio. "You can bring your lady friend too, I guess. I'm open-minded like that."
Rio blinked and looked at Felix for help. She was shocked beyond belief. Honestly though, Felix was the same. This woman was damn bold. "Err…"
It was at that exact moment that Betty Brant stopped flipping channels and the frantic, grave tone of a news anchor invited itself.
"—breaking news out of Latveria. We are receiving confirmed reports that the nation's Monarch, Lucia von Bardas, has passed away. Details are still emerging, but sources are citing a natural cause of death..."
Felix had never swung his neck so quickly. 'What!? Dead!?'
The crisp voice of the anchor seemed to suck all the other sound out of the room. The flirtatious energy surrounding MJ evaporated. Hobie blinked, though still relaxed. He looked at the TV. So did everyone else.
"Natural causes, huh?" MJ shook her head and pursed her lips. "Really gotta make the most of life, huh? How old was she?"
"Forty-one," Hobie answered, blinking. "Natural causes…"
MJ cackled. "What, you got a conspiracy?"
"Oh, come on, you saw the new couple days ago! Celebs and the wealthy literally fell to their deaths! Can't be a coincidence that another rich asshole died."
"They said natural causes."
"And you believe that rubbish?"
"Why not? If there was foul play, wouldn't the government make a stink about it?" MJ countered. "But they're not, so there isn't."
Felix half-listened to their argument. The news anchor continued, the words "…unprecedented coincidences…" and "…global repercussions…" being the main bits he clung to.
"Sorry, um, could you turn the volume up?" Felix asked. Betty shrugged and did as much.
"....just fifteen minutes ago, representatives of Castle Sabbat, the central seat of power within the nation, announced the news to the world. Monarch Lucia von Bardas had been unseen for the past week but questions were not risen considering her introverted nation—'
'Herbie, find me all possible information on Lucia's assassination. Now.'
Damn, what was this timing!? He stopped the coup in Wakanda twenty hours ago!
Time slowed. Felix didn't blink, didn't breathe. His heartbeat felt like it separated into two rhythms—one human, one wired to Herbie.
The room dissolved from his awareness. Mary Jane and Hobie still arguing in the background. The tinny news anchor still talking. Rio's hand touched his arm. But all of it went distant, muted, like it existed behind a thick pane of glass.
A sharp chime pinged inside his skull.
'CROSS-REFERENCING GLOBAL SATELLITE DATA… LATVERIAN ENCRYPTED COMMS BREACHED… UPLOADING SUMMARY TO NEURAL FEED.'
Files flickered like cards in a deck shuffling too fast: maps of Eastern Europe; electromagnetic scans around Castle Sabbat; heat signatures; timelines; diplomatic itineraries of Lucia von Bardas; forensic reports marked "CLASSIFIED"; SHIELD internal memos with half their text redacted. SHIELD was clearly behind; too much chaos from their own coup attempt. Their intel was outdated when it shouldn't have been.
But Herbie wasn't. He gathered, hacked, and collected what both SHIELD and the Latveria government currently had.
'CASTLE SABBAT SECURITY GRID UNDERWENT A FOUR-MINUTE BLACKOUT APPROXIMATELY 36 HOURS AGO. NO OFFICIAL RECORD OF THE OUTAGE.'
'But is that where she died?'
'ACCORDING TO THE FORENSICS REPORTS, SHE DIED IN HER HOME.'
At home but there was also an outage under her government building? Couldn't be a coincidence…
'CROSS-CHECKING HOSPITAL LOGS… CONFIRMING ZERO MEDICAL INTERVENTION FOR MONARCH VON BARDAS WITHIN PAST TWO MONTHS.'
'Really? No medical issues at all?'
'NONE. PROBABILITY OF NATURAL DEATH: 15.4%.'
Assassination. Has to be. The world was supposed to calm down after Wakanda—twenty hours, he couldn't even get a full night.
Felix exhaled once, slow. He had been standing still and watching the news for a good ten seconds. He had to move. 'And read the forensics reports in detail. Can't do it here.'
His phone buzzed. Herbie was calling it remotely. Felix used it as his out.
"Oh—sorry." He pulled the phone from his pocket. "Work call. Emergency. I need to step out."
"Oh!" Rio blinked at him, confused. "Now?"
"I know." Felix looked genuinely apologetic. "I'm sorry. Do you want to stay and hang with them? Or come with me? Either way, no pressure."
Rio didn't even hesitate. "Felix, I'm going with you. Obviously."
Mary Jane raised an eyebrow. "Leaving already? And here I was about to offer you both a drink that isn't garbage." She swirled her water bottle like it was something stronger. "Rain check maybe?"
Felix forced a polite smile. "Rain check."
Hobie gave him a silent nod, like he was thinking deeply too. Glory Grant waved lazily from her seat. Betty Brant returned her focus to the TV, volume still high.
Felix and Rio slipped out.
The hallway outside was just humming fluorescents. There was the echo of distant footsteps from people leaving the concert afar. They walked fast, weaving past crates and coiled cables until they reached the open exit that led to the parking lot. It was supposed to be for the musicians only.
That was when Rio finally whispered, "Okay… what's going on? I'm guessing it has to do with your...other activities and the news."
Yeah, the fact that they were taking this exit and not another signalled red flags. She knew. Of course she knew.
Felix looked around, making sure they were alone. "I need to get home fast. Swinging is the fastest. Are you okay with that?"
Rio blinked once, then her face split into a grin so wide it looked like an adrenaline rush hit her veins. "You're asking if I'm okay with web-swinging over Puerto Rico? Uh—yes. Yes, absolutely. Scoot me up. Let's go."
Felix couldn't help smiling at that. He slipped an arm under her knees and another around her back, lifting her easily. She tucked herself in closer, arms hooking around his neck.
He turned invisible, feeling the light ripple vanish off his skin. He kicked the door open and gave a quick glance around: clear parking lot and night sky (no fans, thank god), stadium lights flickering out behind them. No eyes on them.
Felix stepped out of the concert complex and fired off a line of webbing to the nearest building.
"Ready?" he whispered.
Rio nodded vigorously. "God, yes."
They shot into the air, invisible, and arcing above the glow of San Juan. Rio laughed—half terror, half exhilaration—as the wind whipped through her hair. Felix swung them higher, toward the dark stretch of coastline and the direction of the mansion waiting miles away.