Chapter Text
Peter is officially blacklisted from the pizza delivery industry on June 14th. Well, the New York City pizza delivery industry. Guess he could try Newark, but explaining the commute from Manhattan for minimum wage employment would be even harder than explaining why every other pizza he delivered arrived in a dented (and occasionally bloodstained) box, lukewarm and dropped on the customer’s balcony an hour late.
Maybe the Apple Genius Bar is hiring.
*clack clack clack* *click!* *clack clack … clack …*
The Apple Genius Bar is not hiring.
The concept of a Spider-Man OnlyFans account is slowly becoming less and less of a joke in his brain.
The error noise pings on repeat from his laptop’s speakers as Peter lets his head clunk onto the keyboard. As the Indeed.com search bar offers possible alternative spellings for “ckx467v œj £y,” Peter’s latest session of pretending everything is totally fine (absolutely fine, yup, nothing wrong with his life) is rudely interrupted by the adrenaline rush of spidey-sense prickling up his spine.
His body leaps into action before his mind is done moping, flipping out of reach of the glass shards as any possibility of getting his security deposit back crashes through his window.
By the time his brain catches up, he’s clinging to the ceiling of his studio apartment. His thoughts flood in rapid succession: That’s a person — girl — weird clothes plus 18th-story window access equals supervillain — is she conscious? — where’s my mask?
***
North Korea: the ultimate birthday destination, if you’re a Kryptonian willing to use “heavy stealth” to breach a high-security military lab in Pyongyang. The one problem with stealing a top-secret, experimental toxin from a cutthroat totalitarian regime is that, occasionally, they end up using the toxin on you. Even if you were planning on ingesting the toxin yourself with a lime chaser once you got to Seoul, getting a tranq dart full of ultraconcentrated ethanol before fleeing for your life at supersonic speed can result in … well, Kara’s still figuring out what her current situation is.
“Aren’t you a little … colorful for a supervillain?”
Kara lifts her head, shattered glass falling out of her hair. Ow. Opening her eyes was a mistake. “Whuh?” she wheezes out.
“You know, I see the inspo, the blue and red, and I’m flattered, but B&Es go a lot better when you’re not wearing primary colors. Less … noticeable — wait, why am I giving you advice on how to rob people?”
The blue and red blob in her unfocused vision … lowers from the ceiling? Is she upside down? She lets her head fall back down. The floor/ceiling she was lying on was cool against her pounding skull.
“Ow …”
Almost-imperceptible footsteps pad towards her. If this thing’s gonna attack, she hopes it goes for the head. There aren’t many Terran entities that can hurt a Kryptonian, but maybe if it got in a good hit she’d get a nice nap in before kicking its ass.
“Hey, criminal — uh, ma’am — not sure how to address you … are you okay?” A gloved hand presses against her forehead.
“독,” Kara mumbles.
“What? Did you say ‘dog’?”
Shit. Wrong language. “Poison. ‘M okay.” She leans into the hand that was now brushing away the hair that was falling over her face. Surprisingly gentle for a blob of primary colors — well, the primary colors humans can perceive. “I just need … to close my eyes … for a sec …” Her mother used to stroke her hair like this, when she was little, when she was sick or overtired or scared. It’s also dislodging the glass from her hair, which, while not painful, isn’t a fun thing to have against her scalp. “You can keep doing that … just gonna … stay here … a bit.”
The hand returns, gingerly brushing the glass off the top of her head. As she drifts off, Kara wonders what time zone she’s in. Is it her birthday yet?