The dorm room key feels alien in my hand as I stand in front of room 324, still trying to process the fact that I'm alive, in an alternate universe, and apparently part incubus now? Whatever that means.
After twenty minutes of wandering aimlessly around campus with my student ID clutched like a lifeline, I've finally found Richards Hall. Thank god the building number was printed on my keycard, or I'd probably still be out there looking like a complete idiot.
I slide the key into the lock, half expecting it not to work, like maybe this whole day has been some elaborate hallucination. But the tumblers click, and the door swings open to reveal... not much.
The room is practically empty. A twin bed with bare mattress sits against one wall. Opposite that, a desk with a single lamp. A dresser with three drawers. A closet door that's slightly ajar. No posters, no photos, no personal touches whatsoever. It looks like a prison cell that went to IKEA.
"Home sweet home," I mutter, dropping onto the bare mattress. It squeaks in protest beneath my weight.
For the first time since waking up in that alley, I'm completely alone. No homeless women trying to assault me. No skull-masked psychopaths shooting at me. No actual superheroes swinging me across the Manhattan skyline. Just me and the quiet hum of the building's heating system.
I pull out my phone, a newer model than what I had back home, and stare at the lock screen. It's a generic background of mountains at sunset. Nothing personal. Nothing to indicate who I am in this world.
My thumb hovers over the fingerprint sensor. Will it even recognize me? I press down, and to my surprise, the phone unlocks immediately.
"Okay, time to figure out what the fuck is going on."
I start with the basics, opening the browser and typing "gender roles America" into the search bar. What comes up confirms my suspicions from the interactions I've had so far.
Women are the traditional breadwinners, political leaders, and protectors. Men are valued for their appearance, nurturing qualities, and domestic skills. The articles I skim through talk about the "natural order" of things, how women's greater physical strength and aggressive tendencies made them natural leaders throughout history, while men's empathetic nature and aesthetic value made them better suited for supportive roles.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, scrolling through an article about the "Men's Liberation Movement" of the 1970s. "This is completely backward."
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. Okay, if I'm stuck in some gender-flipped Marvel universe, I need to get my bearings. Find out who's who in this world.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before I type "Peter Parker" into the search bar.
Nothing relevant comes up. Just some random guys with the same name, but no photographer, no Spider-Man. I frown, then try a different approach.
"Spider-Woman photos"
The screen fills with images of the red and blue hero I just met. Action shots of her swinging between buildings, perched on gargoyles, fighting various colorful villains. Most of the photos are credited to the Daily Bugle.
I click through to the Bugle's website and scan the photo credits. "Piper Parker" appears under most of the Spider-Woman shots. Working backwards, I piece together that Peter must be Piper in this universe. Piper Parker, still the photographer capturing Spider-Woman's exploits.
Curious, I open Instagram and search her name. Bingo. Her profile pops up immediately.
@piperparkerphoto. The bio reads: "Sophomore at ESU. Freelance photographer. Caffeine enthusiast."
"She goes to my school," I murmur, scrolling through her feed. Mostly artsy shots of the city, a few selfies with a pretty redhead boy who must be this world's Mary Jane, and campus life pictures.
But it's a photo from about six months ago that makes me pause. It shows Spider-Woman in a black costume, sleek and alien-looking. The caption reads: 'New look for our neighborhood hero? #SpiderWoman #BlackSuit'
"She's already gone through her black suit phase," I whisper, my comic knowledge kicking into overdrive. Which means the symbiote is already out there somewhere. And if the symbiote exists...
"I wonder if there's an Eddie Brock equivalent in this world too."
Hmm.
I type "Eddie Brock Daily Bugle" into the search bar, then correct myself and try "Edith Brock" instead. Nothing. I try a few more female variations—Edna, Edie, before hitting pay dirt with "Ellie Brock."
A series of articles pop up, none of them flattering. "Disgraced Bugle Reporter Fired Over Fabricated Story." "Brock Claims Spider-Woman Set Her Up." "Former Star Journalist Now Tabloid Writer."
I click on one with a photo and find myself staring at a striking blonde woman with intense blue eyes and a sharp, determined face. She looks like she could bench press me without breaking a sweat, her business attire doing little to hide her athletic build.
"Holy fuck..." The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.
My entire body goes hot, then cold, as I stare at Ellie Brock's photo. She's absolutely stunning in the most intimidating way possible, all sharp angles and controlled power. Her eyes seem to pierce through the screen, challenging anyone who dares to look at her. It's not just that she's attractive, she radiates a dangerous intensity that makes my heart race for reasons I can't entirely blame on fear.
I click through to more images, feeling like a stalker but unable to stop myself. In each photo, she looks progressively more pissed off at the world, her expression hardening as the timeline of her professional downfall progresses. According to her university profile, she's a senior majoring in journalism, set to graduate this year.
"Fuck me," I whisper again, unable to tear my eyes away. "If she's Venom in this universe..."
Wait. My brain suddenly catches up with the day's events. When Scourge was attacking me in the museum, I somehow appeared behind her. One second I was in front of her, the next I was behind her.
I teleported.
The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water. I didn't just imagine it. I actually moved through space instantaneously. And before that, in the museum exhibition, time had frozen and I'd met...
"I talked to an actual demon," I say out loud, my voice cracking slightly. "Lileth turned me into some kind of incubus."
I drop my phone onto the mattress and stare at my hands, searching for any visible change. They look the same, same pale skin, same bitten nails, but something feels different. There's an energy humming just beneath the surface, like electricity running through my veins.
Experimentally, I close my eyes and try to visualize myself across the room, standing by the dresser. I focus hard, picturing the exact spot, trying to recapture that strange sensation I felt in the museum.
Nothing happens.
"Come on," I mutter, concentrating harder. "Teleport, damn it."
Still nothing. Maybe I need to be in danger for it to work?
Maybe I need to see where I'm going. I crack my eyes open, thinking about the dresser while focusing on my newfound energy.
"Holy shit!"
The sensation hits me like a static shock, a split-second blur, a stomach-dropping lurch, and suddenly I'm standing by the dresser, exactly where I'd imagined. My knees buckle, and I grab the edge to keep from falling.
"I did it," I whisper, heart pounding in my chest. "I actually fucking teleported."
The rush of success is immediately followed by a small wave of fatigue that makes my vision swim. I stumble back to the bed and collapse, breathing hard like I've just sprinted up a short staircase.
"Okay, so that's how it works," I mutter between breaths. "Eyes open, clear destination, and bam, instant travel. Cool. Very cool."
I lie there for a minute, waiting for my strength to return. The fatigue isn't as bad as it was in the museum, probably because I didn't go as far. There seems to be a direct relationship between distance and energy drain.
When I finally feel steady enough, I sit up and try again, this time visualizing myself by the door. Another static-electric jolt, another blurred transition, and I'm there. The exhaustion hits again, but milder this time.
"I wonder what else I can do," I say, examining my hands again. Lileth had said something about making me an incubus. In mythology, aren't they supposed to be demons that seduce women? The thought makes me snort. If that was Lileth's goal, he picked the wrong guy. Back home, my dating history consisted mainly of awkward first dates and girls who "just wanted to be friends."
A wild thought suddenly pops into my head. Spider-Woman. Could I use these new incubus powers to seduce her? I mean, she's literally one of the most famous superheroes in the world, and she already knows who I am.
I stare at the ceiling, considering it for a moment.
No, that's wrong on so many levels. First off, I've always believed Peter and MJ belong together, which means Piper and whoever this world's MJ is should be too. I'm not about to mess with one of comics' most iconic relationships just because I suddenly have supernatural powers.
"I'm not like Paul!"
Besides, using demonic seduction powers on someone feels... predatory. Gross. Not who I want to be.
My mind drifts to that photo of Ellie Brock, her intense blue eyes seeming to challenge me through the screen. There's something magnetic about her that pulls at me. Hmm...
I shake my head firmly. No. Absolutely not. Even if she sounds fun, it'd still be wrong.
"This is a second chance," I whisper to myself, pushing up from the bed. "A fresh start in a whole new world."
I've spent years reading about heroes, daydreaming about what I'd do with powers. Now I actually have them. There's no way I'm wasting this opportunity by becoming some demonic fuckboy or getting tangled up with supervillains.
I pace across the small room, energy buzzing beneath my skin. "I'm going to be a hero," I declare to the empty room, clenching my fists. "Whatever kind of incubus powers I have, I'll use them to help people."