tapped on the shoulder by fate.

Frank opened the first aid kit, and collected everything he needed. Using a bottle of water, he washed down the blood from his wounds, in special from his face so he could see better. Then, he started working on disinfecting the cuts before bandaging them up – which looked pathetic since he couldn’t even open the packages of the band-aids properly.

While he was taking care of himself, he answered the hero, not really hopeful. “He wasn’t working for them. He showed up when I finished down the mafiosi, told me someone hired him to make me busy while something else happened. And I don’t know what, which is frustrating.“ He spat blood on the floor of the van, finally done with his wounds. “I have no idea where he went. I fell unconscious for some time after he beat me up. Funny that he didn’t kill me, but whatever. I’m pissed enough for my pride.”

          He just watches him, standing idly by. If this wasn’t Frank, maybe he’d have helped patch them up. But this is not not Frank, and he knows he’s a piece of work, and he knows he can take care of himself. So, he just watches, and he listens, and he thinks about what he’s missed. He could have stopped Bullseye, he thinks, but, then again, Matt seems to have his own work cut out for him and he has a Sense of his own. So. He doesn’t know. But he feels antsy, because they’re both at a loss. 

“Not really my area of expertise,” Danny had extreme love and respect for science and scientific advancements– but he was no scientist himself.  He couldn’t begin to imagine how Reed might have put something like that together.  He just chalked it up to being a super genius. 

“That sounds super helpful though.  I don’t suppose he’s willing to share with friends who are this close to taking out stock in Scotch Guard?” 

          “And that’s not really my area of expertise, Mister Fister. You’d have to take that one up with the Big Cheese himself.” Of course, he loosely knows the science behind it, but, of course, he’s no Reed Richards.

“It was hardly an obscure loophole, museums have to have very good heating and cooling because paintings are delicate and have to be kept at the same temperature. Plus there’s a full scale Egyptian tomb in there.Which means nice cat sized duct work.  No matter how tight the Met makes their security there’s still six ways into that building and honestly any thief only needs one,” she said, pulling open the desk drawer, and out a post it note withe computer password scrawled across it.

“This is my first night on it, but it’s usually the spouse. Especially since said spouse is about to become an ex-spouse,” she said, as she started to dig around in the computer records. “But I guess the real boring thing about detective work I’ve found is that the most likely answer is usually the right one.”

          “And she’s humble, too! Now, that’s going to impress the Thieves Guild -- err, the Academy -- come award season.” Of course, he inevitably humors her, but he knows that she’s good at what she does. She wouldn’t have been so slippery all these years if not, and, certainly, she wouldn’t have been picked for this if she didn’t know how to do her job. Still, though, he straightens up (as best as he can leaning over just next to her) and tries to get to work. Some might beg to differ, but, well, he’s been at this almost twenty years -- that long? -- and he can help.

   " listen,  kid,  i’m pretty notorious for my  sweet  tooth,  but i’m  almost a  hundred percent sure  taking one bite out of that would destroy my body immediately.  “   noir is saying, pointing for emphasis at the vendor before them.  sure,  he’d been to the carnivals and  had tried some of its deliciously unhealthy food from his own dimension,  but something as intense as deep-fried chocolate bars seemed like something that would make him sick almost instantly.     ” yeah,  no.  that’s a feeling i’d rather not pursue on my free time, “    noir admitted,  raising a hand to  lightly rub the back of his neck.   after all,  to him being a vigilante wasn’t as much fun and games as it maybe was to the other peter parkers of the multiverse.  even the smell was a little nausea-inducing. 

   "  i swear,   some of you peters are lucky your metabolism is so out of whack,   'cuz with the way a couple of you eat … ”   he sighed in defeat.     “  –    sure.   a hot dog will do. ”

          He’d be lying if he said that part of the appeal of the mask played no part in his sense of ease at times ---- being able to get out, feel the wind rushing against you, feel light as a feather against-- well. It’s marginally less grim than whatever his alternate had endured, he figures. “All I’m saying is what’s a Spider-Man if not someone who gets up after getting knocked down? And eats terrible, no-good, deep-fried food, nearly dies, then eats some more? Plus, you know, Spider-Metabolism,” he jokes, then, pointing a finger at Noir’s stomach, “But much obliged. Hector’s got the best hot dogs in the city.”

     Every single time they fought it was the same scene. It was repeated over and over again. Though, Quentin never felt that he had gotten it right; true, he fought others before and failed far more miserably than he had with Spider-man. He supposed he could have gone back sooner to his usual play, but retirement was pleasing ( for a while ), and he enjoyed it. 

       He enjoyed it… right up until he was forced to come out of it. Such a shame really, he actually liked the place he was in, but it was too late to go back now. He already had his eyes on a much larger prize, and this time? He wasn’t going to allow the usual scenes to play out. 

       “Spider-Man! It’s such a lovely day for you quips! Mysterio had almost forgotten what it was like to see you enter the scene, but your presence is still unwelcome.”

          He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t suspicious, knowing full well Beck’s track record. But, with that said, it’s better him than the Goblin. That doesn’t mean he’s letting his guard down that much though, and he pays attention to the tentative hum in the center of the back of his skull. It’s not overbearing, not threatening to split open his skull just yet as if he’s being attacked, but that doesn’t mean Beck has nothing planned, and Peter knows it, anticipates it. If there ever was a time to use that Spider-Sense, it’d be now, he thinks, as if his brain doesn’t autopilot with it regardless.

          “---- see, but the point is that they’re not supposed to be good for you!” He doesn’t know how to explain this to a man out of time, knowing full well the circumstances of his time (and knowing full well how eating deep-fried candy would have been beyond him when he was young, pinching pennies and eating May’s wheatcakes), but he aggressively gestures to a fried food stand below them. “It’s... you know when you put the suit on and there’s a bad guy and you catch him but only barely escape by the skin of your teeth? That’s what eating deep-fried chocolate bars is.”

Honestly, the absolute worst thing about Peter was that he was actually a good, decent, kind, sweet guy. Which made any attempt to be mean to him, or mad at him, very hard. She felt like shit. She was a shitty person. He’s done a lot for you, and this is how you’re going to treat him? You’re a bitch. Grade A, fucking bitch. “Everything’s fine, I’m just working. You know Nine to Five like the song,” she said, walking deeper into the apartment. “I’m looking into a missing person’s case,” she said, “Misty and Colleen took me on with the Heroes for Hire, so it’s … you know as legit as vigilante work gets, I guess,” she said. “Kid went missing, and in cases like this it’s usually the spouse, so time to find out of dad’s got any other properties,” she said, dropping into the computer chair.

          Like the song, she says, and he smiles. Not the most usual nine-to-five, he thinks, but there’s hardly a “usual” in this line of work. At the very least, he’s proud of her and this divergence. It’s a lot more straight, anyway -- and, then again, maybe he’s a hypocrite for punching people in the heads while criticizing her.

For a second, Frank was glad that Spider-Man changed the question – whatever he was doing, clearly he could figure out what happened. Grunting, Frank limped towards his van, opening the back doors with a single hand but not before fighting to find the keys in his pocket. “Italian mafia, but Bullseye was around.”

Inside the vehicle, he looked for the first aid kit, which was very prepared for situations like that one – it wouldn’t replace a hospital, but good enough to make him survive until getting to his hideout. He figured Spider-man had followed him – all those heroes, as much as they disliked The Punisher, they were still noble to genuinely care about him. “This is my daily life. Sometimes, you have a bit of bad luck. But not that bad to the point of killing me.”

          There’s half a worry in his gut there, and it doesn’t seem to want to dissipate. Half a tinge of guilt for not being there sooner, but there’s more unease at the thought of Bullseye being at large. He knows what he’s capable of, both firsthand and from Matt. Maybe he can catch him, maybe he wrap around and get to him if he’s quick enough, maybe-- well. He’s not exactly in the strongest position here, being behind and trying to get to the bottom of things to begin with. He refocuses his attention to Frank, and swallows hard.