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Chapter 002 – Clear Waters (01)
The salty wind danced across his skin, carrying a freshness Peter Parker hadn't felt in a long time. It was clean air, free from the metallic smell of blood, the smoke of collapsing buildings, and the static buzz of advanced technology. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with that simple blessing as his eyes drifted into the endless blue sky. For a fleeting moment, the weight on his shoulders seemed to ease. No dimensional rifts tearing open the heavens. No dying city screaming around him. Only the gentle sway of the ship, the rhythmic whoosh of waves against the hull, and the distant cries of seagulls.
A fragile peace—promptly shattered by a voice he'd grown familiar with.
"Hey! Scab! Stop daydreaming and finish scrubbing the deck! Dirt doesn't disappear just because you're staring at the clouds!"
The Amazing Spider-Man, now reduced to the humble "Scab," returned to reality with a soft sigh. He turned, grabbing the wooden mop—hands once swift enough to sling webs and fight villains now clutching it with tired resignation. With a dull, mechanical motion, he pushed it back and forth across the rough planks, the salty, grimy water forming small dark rivulets.
Captain Silas always justified Peter's presence aboard as an act of "unmatched oceanic generosity." He claimed that, out of pure nobility, he hadn't tossed Peter back into the sea to become fish food. Peter, however, wasn't naïve. With only three souls aboard the small ship—the red-haired, pot-bellied captain; his skeletal, jittery first mate, Stringer Vess; and himself—it was obvious that "Scab" was actually valuable manpower. Free labor. From bits of conversation he'd overheard, the ship had suffered an "unfortunate encounter"—clear euphemism for a humiliating defeat—and was now fleeing, having lost most of its original crew to battle or mutiny.
A part of Peter—the part that was the Spider-Man of New York—evaluated the situation with cold precision. Two men. One was a drunken braggart with a wobbling gut. The other a scrawny, nervous stick of a man whose bones seemed ready to tear through his skin. Even in his pitiful state, Peter was certain he could take them down in seconds. A precise strike here, a web shot there… but then what?
His body answered that. A mosaic of bruises and pain. And, more importantly, the deep, angry wound slashing across his back from left shoulder to right hip. A dimensional scar—a poisoned gift from his catastrophic journey through the rift. The skin around it looked different, slightly translucent with a faint opaline glow, as if still echoing the energy that nearly tore him apart. The idea of having crossed into another universe was monumental, insane. But for a man who had chatted with armored geniuses and seen a sand-made man reform himself endlessly, the impossible was just a complicated Tuesday. The absurdity here was, ironically, the most plausible explanation he had.
So he scrubbed the deck. And he listened. Every island name, every mention of "Yonko," "Marines," or "Sea King" that slipped from Silas or Stringer's lips was another piece of a cosmic puzzle he desperately tried to assemble.
The final confirmation of his displacement didn't come with a crash—it came with silence. The utter lack of recognition when he cautiously mentioned the X-Men, or a Chitauri invasion. A brief hope that he might simply have time-traveled to an earlier age of pirates died when Stringer casually remarked, while discussing sea routes, that the world was a sprawling cluster of islands with no large continental masses. Peter Parker's world, once global, had shrunk to the size of a beat-up pirate ship rocking on an unknown ocean.
"Hey! Scab!"
Stringer Vess's voice cut through his thoughts again. The thin man approached, his sunken eyes like two dark tunnels staring at Peter with sudden, wary curiosity.
"Now that I think about it… what the hell happened to you? How'd you end up in the middle of the ocean, beat up like a wrecked ship?"
Peter looked at Stringer. Even the name felt strange—though not stranger than anything else here. He sighed heavily as a familiar throb sparked across his back, a painful reminder of his journey.
"They attacked the ship I was on," he said, voice low and steady, a simple lie forming with surprising ease. "Threw everyone into the water. I tried swimming away… and that's how I ended up like this."
He gestured vaguely toward his torso, to the crude, poorly tied bandages wrapped around his chest and back. They were his "reward" for agreeing to join Silas's crew—a fragile, unspoken deal between a desperate castaway and two pirates equally desperate for an extra pair of hands, even if those hands belonged to a stranger who'd fallen from the sky—or, in this case, the sea.
"Hm…" Stringer narrowed his eyes, his gaunt face twisting into a mask of suspicion. He muttered something inaudible under the constant roar of the ocean, then asked, voice heavy with distrust:
"Where are you from, exactly?"
Peter froze, the mop still under his fingers. The question echoed in his mind—simple, yet impossibly complex. Where was he from? A ruined world. A tiny apartment in Queens. A reality where Aunt May always left a dried-up cake on the windowsill. A bitter, ironic smile flickered across his lips.
"I'm from New York."
"New York…?" Stringer frowned, his thin eyebrows almost touching. He searched every bit of geographic memory he had. "No… don't remember any place with that name in the Four Blues… You from North Blue? South?"
"YOU TWO! Shut up and pay attention!"
Silas's thunderous voice erupted, drowning out whatever answer Peter might have concocted. The captain stood planted at the helm, gripping it with one hand while the other waved a nearly empty bottle of rum. His face was flushed—a blend of sunburn and alcohol.
"Quit your laundry-day gossiping and get this ship organized! And lower the flag, you idiots! We're approaching! We're docking!"
Peter glanced at the mast, where the tattered black flag with a skull swayed proudly.
"Lower it?" he asked, genuinely confused. Why would a pirate hide his colors?
"Of course, you idiot!" Stringer barked, suspicion replaced briefly by exasperated amusement. "Who in their right mind would show a pirate flag in a place like that? That's asking to be boarded, robbed, and sunk before your anchor even touches sand! Especially… there."
His tone shifted at the final word—tinged with caution. As he hurried to lower the pirate flag, replacing it with a plain, insignia-less cloth, Peter felt a chill run down his spine. There was something more to that island than just a safe port.
"So where are we going?" Peter asked, eyes locked on the blurry line of land taking shape on the horizon—a smear of green and brown against the blue.
Silas took a grand final swig of rum, puffing his chest with forced bravado before answering:
"Dawn Island! Eastern Gate of the Goa Kingdom!"
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As the ship approached, cutting through the turquoise waters with wobbly dignity, Peter finally saw the island in full. The sight was so striking he held his breath without realizing it.
It was beautiful.
Dawn Island was vast and vibrant. Its coast curved in a crescent of pale sand, kissed by gentle waves. But what stood out most was the defensive structure. A colossal wall of pale stone arched perfectly across the land, clearly dividing the inner and outer sections. Inside the walls lay an organized cluster of red-tiled roofs and straight roads, while outside sprawled a more chaotic mix of docks, warehouses, and modest homes. Near the very center of the walled territory, a lone tower pierced the sky—its elegant silhouette rising like a pillar of authority.
"Wow…" he whispered, awe briefly sweeping away the pain and confusion in his heart. "It's… incredible."
Stringer Vess, fastening a rope nearby, shot him a sideways glance.
"Judging by that glazed fish-face you're making, I'm guessing you've never been to the Goa Kingdom," Stringer said, nostalgia and resignation woven into his voice. "It's beautiful, yeah. Rich history, fertile land… but it's got problems. Trust me."
"Problems?" Peter asked, hero instincts stirring.
"Well… it's complicated." Stringer shrugged, avoiding eye contact. "Especially if you're unlucky enough to run into the—"
"THAT'S JUST PURE COWARDICE!" Captain Silas bellowed from the helm, chest puffed again in false bravado. "No true pirate—no true sailor—trembles before rumors and shadows! Fear is for merchants and civilians!"
Stringer let out a short, dry laugh, as if reminded of an inside joke.
"Then, Captain, might I suggest you shout that in the middle of the marketplace once we land? I'm sure they'll reward your bravery."
Silas's heroic posture deflated instantly. He cleared his throat, tugging awkwardly at his grimy collar.
"What I mean is… perhaps discretion is the better part of valor. We'll act like fishermen. Humble, peaceful fishermen. Yes. That."
Peter watched the sudden shift in the captain's attitude, then turned again toward the towering wall and the lone tower. There was history here. A hierarchy. A danger even pirates hesitated to name. And yet, as the warm sun bathed his face and the scent of land and sea filled his senses, something stirred within him. A strange flutter—anticipation, maybe. A spark of something new.
He chuckled softly to himself. Maybe, amid all the chaos and uncertainty, this world wasn't so bad after all.
(End of Chapter 002 – Part 01)
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