The city at night had its own kind of rhythm. For Ricochet, it was the sound of distant sirens, the hum of traffic far below, and the occasional sharp clang of metal against brick. He perched on the edge of a rooftop, the padded leather of his alternate identity's jacket creaking faintly as he adjusted his stance. The mask — simple, functional — was pulled low, concealing the familiar features beneath. He wasn't Peter Parker tonight. He wasn't even Spider-Man. He was Ricochet — streetwise, nimble, and, most importantly, a complete unknown to most of the criminal underworld.
Below, the alley stretched like a dark vein between two derelict buildings. Delilah stood there, half in shadow, half illuminated by a weak, flickering streetlight. She was in casual gear, but there was nothing casual about her stance. Her weight was balanced on the balls of her feet, one hand resting near the small of her back where Peter could guess — correctly — she kept a firearm.
He dropped down, landing lightly in front of her.
Her eyes narrowed. "You're the one Luc said I'd be meeting."
"Yeah, that's me," Ricochet replied, voice pitched lower than Peter's usual tone. "Ah… Luc said you needed help with someone."
Delilah's jaw tightened, and Peter saw the faintest hitch in her movements — the kind that only came from recovering from something bad. 'Ethan said she was still hurt from the Black Tarantula thing,' Peter thought. He didn't let it show.
"He's making moves," she said after a beat, her tone clipped. "Black Tarantula. Strong. Too strong to take down solo. Rose's people are too wrapped up in their own mess to focus. I need someone who can move without the baggage."
"And you think that's me?" Ricochet tilted his head, studying her.
"I think you've got skills. Luc wouldn't have set this up otherwise." Her eyes narrowed further. "And you don't work for Rose."
Peter shrugged. "That last part's true. But before I go sticking my neck out, I need to know why you're really asking for help. Guys like Tarantula… I'm guessing that they don't just move in for territory. They make statements."
Delilah's lips pressed into a thin line. "He already made his. Snapped my neck."
Peter almost asked, 'how are you even standing here?' but bit it back. Healing factors and miraculous recoveries were practically Tuesday in this world.
Instead, he said, "So this is personal."
Her voice turned icy. "It's business. But if personal satisfaction comes with it, I won't complain."
Peter folded his arms, playing the streetwise cynic. "And what exactly are you expecting from me? Recon? Muscle? Someone to draw fire while you line up the shot?"
"Teamwork," she said flatly. "I got word that two of Tarantula's men, Roughhouse and Bloodscream, are in town. They are his main hitters. They'll be guarding whatever he's moving next. I want them out of the way. Sadly, I don't think I, by myself, can handle the two of them."
"And you think I'm just gonna throw myself into that because you asked nicely?" Ricochet quipped.
"You're here, aren't you? Obviously, you'll be paid for the job," she countered smoothly.
Peter smirked behind the mask. "Touché."
They spoke a while longer, circling each other verbally, each testing the other's limits. Eventually, Peter nodded. "Alright. I'll help you hit his people. But I'm not in this for your war with Tarantula. One job. That's all."
"Fine," Delilah said, but her eyes told him she was already planning more. "Give me your number. I'll send you the details tomorrow."
They parted without a handshake, each vanishing into the night in opposite directions.
The next morning, Ethan dragged himself through another day of school, counting the minutes until the final bell. He'd promised himself he wouldn't skip again so soon — too many absences and the teachers would get nosy, possibly even contact his parents. That was a complication he couldn't afford.
Once the bell rang, Paige fell into step beside him, her southern drawl cutting through the post-class chatter. "Hey, Ethan. Think we could swing by and see Rachel today? Been a while."
Ethan resisted the urge to sigh. He had a thousand things to do, but Paige — future Husk of the X-Men — was too valuable a connection he would need to access Forge. He could not afford to alienate her. "Sure," he said, keeping his tone casual.
They caught a bus across town, arriving at the hospital where Rachel was still recovering. The nurse on duty gave them a brief smile and waved them toward the private wing. Rachel was sitting up when they entered, her posture tense, eyes darting toward the door before softening at the sight of Paige.
"Hey," Rachel murmured.
Paige went straight to her side, while Ethan hung back, observing. He could see it in her — the telltale microexpressions of someone still carrying trauma: hyper-vigilance, guarded body language, subtle muscle tension. Her time possessed by the demon had left deeper scars than just the physical.
Ethan stepped forward, his voice soft, steady. "Mind if I try something new with you today?"
Rachel looked uncertain, but Paige nodded encouragingly. "He's good at this," she said.
Ethan pulled up a chair. "Alright, we're gonna start simple. Focus on your breathing. In through your nose for four counts… hold for two… out through your mouth for six."
She followed his lead, the first few breaths shaky, uneven. Ethan kept his tone calm, guiding her through grounding exercises — identifying objects in the room, naming sounds she could hear, feeling the texture of the blanket under her hands.
Bit by bit, he saw her shoulders drop, her gaze lose that hard edge.
"Better," Ethan said quietly. "Your nervous system's been stuck in fight-or-flight. These exercises help remind it you're safe now."
Rachel gave him the faintest smile — the kind that came from effort. "Thanks."
They stayed a little longer, chatting about harmless topics until Ethan judged she'd had enough stimulation for the day. "Small steps," he reminded her before they left.
Amy's place was their next stop. She answered the door looking… frustrated. A small, unintentional spark of energy danced across her fingertips before she quickly stuffed her hands in her pockets.
"Hey, stranger. How have you been?" Ethan greeted, stepping inside.
"Not well," Amy admitted. "Peter's been busy, so I haven't had much practice lately."
"Busy's one word for it," Ethan said lightly, thinking of the tangled mess Peter was juggling.
Paige wandered off to the kitchen, leaving Ethan and Amy in the living room. He glanced at her. "Want me to run you through some mental control drills? Nothing fancy, just enough to keep you sharp until Peter can focus on you again."
Her eyes brightened. "Yeah… yeah, I'd like that."
They worked through exercises, Ethan adapting them from various techniques he'd picked up — some real-world psychology, some drawn from his meta-knowledge of power control training. Amy's confidence rose with each successful attempt, her control tightening.
By the time they left, Ethan could see the improvement — not just in her abilities, but in her mood. That was important. Confidence was as much a weapon as any superpower.
As they walked back, Paige shot him a look. "You're good at this, y'know."
Ethan shrugged, hiding the satisfaction that crept in. "Someone's gotta keep the group together."
Paige laughed, "And you think that's you?"
"Hey, you're welcome to take over anytime," shot back Ethan.
Inside, he was already shifting mental gears, thinking ahead to Delilah, Black Tarantula, and the nine-day clock ticking down.