Chapter Text
Freezers aren’t exactly praised for being comfortable things to lounge in, something which Ashveil knows all too well from painful experience. However, he’d gladly pass out in one a million times more before willingly stepping into the heaping pile of garbage he and Narrator are currently stuck in.
Honestly, the situation they’ve landed themselves in is rather ridiculous, and that’s been quite a high bar for Ashveil to clear lately.
It’s as if he was tossed into one of those comic books written by the eccentric lady he shares his workplace with. Somehow, the retired Galaxy Ranger has found himself waking up in a strange, strange place with not the faintest clue of how, when, or why; only the understanding that something has been erased, and the insatiable urge to find out what before it’s too late.
Fortunately, Ashveil is a detective, and if there’s anything he can handle, it’s a mystery.
Unfortunately, remaining in this trash heap isn’t exactly going to solve this case.
“Ugh,” he groans, clutching his aching head, noting it down as a clue in between the angry pulses of pressure behind his eyes. He turns towards Narrator, who’s perched directly on top of a black garbage bag, curled up in it like a cat basking in the sun. The site would be rather cute if not for the situation they were in, and the fact that he is most definitely not awake. An unconscious Narrator means a far, far more confused detective, having outsourced almost all of his deduction skills to his dear assistant and friend long ago.
But no matter! He scoops up his colleague, carefully making sure he’s not injured before crawling out of what he now realizes is a dumpster. Ashveil’s careful not to lean too hard on his broken leg as he steps over its metal wall, tenderly placing a foot on the alleyway floor before hauling the rest of his body out.
If Narrator was awake, he’d examine the area, look at the dumpster for any identifying numbers or names to try and find out where they are, but Ashveil doesn’t need to do any of that to determine he isn’t in Planarcadia anymore- the lack of expendable merchandise amid all the waste speaks for itself.
“Just where have we found ourselves?” Ashveil muses to nobody in particular, carefully dusting himself and Narrator off before stepping towards the exit of the alleyway.
The dark sky above implies it’s nighttime in this city he’s found himself in, but the old Ranger has been far and wide; for all he knows, this could be the brightest day of the year.
Or the darkest. Either way, he’s not eager to waltz so confidently out into the street, even if he’s confident that no matter where in the universe he’s ended up, it’s unlikely he’s in any danger.
No, the real threat is himself, so with a confident look in his eyes, Ashveil scans the crowd, deciding which new mask to don today.
As he watches people pass on by, careful to not be seen, he’s surprised by just how… ordinary everything seems to be. No Wishpower, no Path Abilities, no mention of anything or anyone he’s familiar with on the billboards and signs, which by some strange providence, he can actually read. After half an hour of observation and careful, careful sneaking around to not catch anyone’s watchful eye, Ashveil’s honestly convinced this place may never have even heard of Aeons, let alone the origins of someone like himself.
Moreover, there’s a sort of dismal, grim energy to the whole place he can’t quite put his finger on. The shadow beneath his skin writhes uncomfortably, urging him forward, begging him to dispel the evil that lingers here, the infinite hatred for injustice that brews within him gnawing at his spirit.
He gazes at the faces of the people that go by, and he’s surprised by what he sees. Ashveil wouldn’t say they’re sad. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Everyone moves with speed, with purpose, as if they’re all rushing to where they need to be. A few seem more relaxed, but overall, the place is alight with an energy Ashveil can’t quite describe, beyond the simple fact that it makes the city itself feel as if it’s breathing, alive. A meteor could drop from the sky and they’d barely spare the air a glance up before moving on with their lives.
However, when Ashveil looks closer, he spots an instinctual wariness sparked in the eyes of all that pass on by. They may have higher priorities currently, but if such a calamity were to arrive, while it may cause concern, they’d be ready for it.
He sighs as he takes off his hat, realizing too quickly that his current attire makes him stand out like a sore thumb in this place. The world born of a painting can be as colorful and eccentric as it pleases, but places grounded in reality possess far less splendor, therefore he must get with the program eventually. The patrons of this place may not mind, but he’s better safe than sorry, after all.
Fortunately, that ever present shadow of his, despite all the grief it’s caused him, comes in very handy on this occasion.
Donning a dirty jacket out from the trash, Ashveil replaces his coat with it and pulls it’s hood over his head before coating himself in its darkness, making his attire appear monochrome, and concealing the form of Narrator from the world. It’s not a perfect solution, and the style of what remaining from his original outfit plus the hoodie isn’t exactly your typical business casual, but it lets him scurry over to the nearest thrift store to try and pick out a week's worth of clothing with not much more than a few weird glances being cast his way.
On his mini shopping spree, the dissimilarity of this world compared to his own becomes even more apparent, and Ashveil realizes the situation may be far more dire than it initially seemed. Narrator, after finally waking up as they stepped inside, was quickly briefed on the situation, and as follows are the series of notes the poor assistant used to recount this unfortunate incident:
Entry One. 2158 AE. Planetary time: ???
Mr. Ashveil has informed me of the situation. He already doubts anyone on this planet is in a similar position as me, and I am inclined to agree. He expressed dislike at the idea of pretending I was his pet, and while I am not fond of the idea, we believe it may be our only option to traverse here without being accosted.
Using his Shadow to make himself less conspicuous… I can’t say it’s a bad idea, but we both know the Destruction that thing is capable of if not controlled properly. I’m sure he has a handle on it.
There’s a space between the next paragraph, as if some amount of time has passed.
This is quite a delightful store. I can’t say the ever-changing trends of Planarcadia’s fashion catch my eye all that much, but the simplicity of the clothing here is rather… refreshing, and Mr. Ashveil seems to think the same.
He found a shirt with what appears to be a banana on it. I’m relieved this planet seems to still have them, although I doubt they’re the same as the ones in Planarcadia. I wonder if the people here have AMOs (Artistically Modified Organisms), or perhaps a modified version of it.
Another break in the writing, this time by a harsh, jagged line of ink splitting the paper horizontally in two.
Someone almost spotted me, and now I’ve ruined this paper. No matter, although if they had seen me, I likely would have given them quite a fright. Every minute we spend here, it seems as though we are getting even further from home. In Planarcadia, we’d have heard of at least 5 prayers to Aha- or some other Aeon at the very least- by now. It seems this place knows nothing of the sort.
I wonder if Akivili ever visited.
I’ve raised the idea that we may be in a different universe to the Detective, and as outlandish as the thought may be, he concurs. That places us in quite a bit of trouble, but if there’s anything we can handle, it’s an “unsolvable” mystery or two.
The writing gets ever so slightly messier.
Hmm. Mr. Ashveil can’t pay for the clothing here. Seems we were right.
How unfortunate.
“I’M SORRY!” Ashveil shouts as he dashes out of the store, clothing- and Narrator- in tow, speeding past the people on the street.
He’s fast, unnaturally fast compared to any person here, so the escape isn’t any trouble… but the attention it attracts?
Horrid.
“Stop right there!” A young man’s voice shouts, and Ashveil finds himself face to face with a masked boy he figures is no older than 17, dressed in a strange red and blue getup, his chest decorated with the emblem of what appears to be a spider.
Ashveil, having had the foresight to conceal his face avoids making the intrepid high-schooler blocking his path even more mad with the flabbergasted expression plastered across his face. However, he still pisses the kid off anyway by ignoring his warning, immediately bolting away from him instead, clothing and Narrator in tow.
The guy’s at least significantly faster than anyone else around him, and shoots out some weird, white projectile to stop him. However, Ashveil still leaves him in the dust, tearing through the city streets as fast as he can. He finally comes to a stop about ten blocks away, hoping that’s far enough to lose the guy. Immediately hopping into the nearest alleyway to changes clothes, he thanks his lucky stars nobody saw Narrator stuffed inside his coat either.
Now, Ashveil, his new “service” monkey, and the dirty bag he fished out of the trash filled with stolen clothes from the thrift store hit the streets, ready for whatever opportunity that awaits them.
Matthew Murdock sits in his office at Murdock, Nelson and Page, and for the first time since the Punisher trial, is absolutely baffled by the words coming out of his client's mouth.
“The men who kidnapped and tried to rob you… ate 3 full-course meals at once after?” He asks, genuinely flabbergasted.
“Yes!” His client shouts enthusiastically, her steady heart unfortunately proving the honesty of her words. “First, I thought it was ridiculous they were trying to rob someone in Hell’s Kitchen of all places! We’re not living it up here! This neighborhood isn’t exactly known for its wealthy, and I made that very obvious, so they just kidnapped me cause I didn’t have anything to give them! I was terrified, I even thought they’d kill me, but they instead left me there tied to a chair for like an hour, didn’t even try and torture me or anything. Finally, they went to feed me but just… couldn’t? They dragged in a whole cart of food to give me, and one of those guys tried to hand a slice of pizza to me… only to shove it in his mouth instead! And then he ate everything else on the cart in front of me! I don’t know if he was taunting me or what…” she finally trails off, her rant only ending off due to the lack of oxygen reaching her gasping lungs.
“Um… how much food was on the cart ma’am?” Matt asks, unsure of how to respond to her story.
“A shit ton! I’ll tell you that! It was like a whole buffet and that guy just ate it like it was nothing! Hell, I think he started munching on the cart too!” She yells, her voice a strange mixture of elated and terrified.
“Well, thank you miss… but why go to me with this information? Surely the police would be your first bet?” He asks, genuinely confused as to why she came to him of all people.
However, instead of being deterred, she just shakes her head like it’s the most obvious thing ever. “Come on man, everyone knows you’re like the go to lawyer for half this city's vigilantes… I suppose they like a guy who couldn’t possibly tell the difference between their civilian selves and their secret identities… anyways, I figured you could pass the tip along for me, I’m sure one of them would be interested!” She concludes enthusiastically, nodding her head expectantly like Luke Cage or Iron Fist would smash through his flimsy door and be ready to stand at her service any minute now.
Fortunately, his frazzled client had come to the right person, even if she didn’t realize it.
Matt smiles. “I’ll pass it along if I run into them, I promise.”
“Thank you so much!” She grins, practically skipping out the door, blissfully unaware of the tempest brewing in her wake.
Peter is going to go insane.
It had been a nice, normal day for far… by New York standards at least.
He’d gone to school, turned in his science project (and got an A+ and a smile from his favorite teacher, yup) then took the bus home with a smile on his face, eager to show his aunt what he’d accomplished.
She’d wiped a tear from her eye after reading his report of possible biodegradable chemical alternatives to plastic, exclaimed how “the world needs people like him during these times,” and she’d even given him a $20 gift card as a reward for him to spend later.
Overall, a good day.
Until a lunatic robbing clothes from a goddamn thrift store somehow manages to bolt past him without even a spark of magic flying off his body, and Peter gives chase for just a second before accepting how truly futile the endeavor is.
He’s never liked being bested, and it’s not often someone can outrun Spider-Man, but he’s smart enough to know when to leave a situation alone sometimes, even if his heart is still screaming at him for not chasing after the guy. This guy’s strong, strong enough to where causing a scene now is more trouble than it’s worth. Fortunately, Peter’s made some friends recently, so with the thought of Tony Stark’s hefty coffers on his mind, he promises the store owner she’ll be generously compensated for the loss and begrudgingly returns home to record the incident.
“A guy that fast in New York?” Ned asks incredulously when Peter recounts the incident to him. “Stealing… clothes, nonetheless. Was he a mutant or something?”
Peter sighs, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his head upon them, absentmindedly gazing at his computer screen in front of him. “The strange part is I don’t think he was!” He exclaims, furrowing his brow. “Sure, there’s plenty of people in the world that are just fast without a hint of mutant DNA or magic or whatever in them… but something about him just felt… weird.”
Ned raises an eyebrow. “What kind of weird?” He questions, leaning in curiously.
“Like…” Peter pauses, running over the moment in his mind again, “like there was something wrong with him, and that’s partially the reason why he was so fast.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve never had my spider sense react in that way before. It was practically indescribable, but there was a strange aura to him, like he was… cursed, almost,” Peter concludes, shifting his legs down so he can reach for the mouse to open a new file on the computer.
“Do you think he was a bad guy?” Ned continues.
“Probably not,” Peter admits. “Reason stands that someone worse likely would have fought me there, or at least tried to hurt myself and others as he left. However, that guy only seemed to care about the clothes- it’s partly why I didn’t bother chasing him. I understand being in a tough spot like that.”
Ned is silent for a moment at that, wondering why someone capable enough to steal that easily would just settle on cheap, reused clothing and nothing else. A move like that suggests desperation… but why not rob somewhere more valuable then? A bank would pay for clothing and anything else one dealing with financial troubles may need.
The best friends meet each other's eyes, and a terrifying, exciting conclusion becomes immediately apparent:
They have a mystery on their hands.