The boutique had been expensive. Past tense. Because right now it looked like someone had taken a luxury shopping district, fed it to a wood chipper operated by particularly vindictive fashion critics, then set the remains on fire while playing death metal at volumes that violated several noise ordinances.
Shredded mannequins lay scattered across designer marble like the aftermath of Fashion Week's most traumatic nightmare. Molten clothing racks dripped what had once been couture down walls that probably cost more per square foot than most people's cars. There was enough ruined designer merchandise to make Anna Wintour weep actual tears, then bill someone for emotional damages.
And then—because apparently the universe had a twisted sense of humor and a serious grudge against expensive real estate—things got monumentally worse.
Something shifted behind Peter Parker's eyes. Something that made homicidal rage look like a friendly suggestion from your neighborhood librarian. The black costume didn't just pulse; it exploded outward like liquid hatred had discovered steroids, protein shakes, and a really good personal trainer who specialized in apocalyptic transformations.
"**ENOUGH.**"
The voice that emerged from where Spider-Man used to be could have been Satan's personal announcer, if Satan had decided to take up professional wrestling and had really strong opinions about dental hygiene. This wasn't Peter Parker anymore. This wasn't even corrupted-but-still-recognizably-Peter Parker. This was something that had been lurking in the cheap seats of his consciousness, waiting for its moment in the spotlight while eating popcorn and plotting world domination.
The creature that rose from the wreckage looked like someone had asked a nightmarish AI to design "Spider-Man, but make it absolutely terrifying and give it serious anger management issues." The white spider emblazoned across its chest wasn't a symbol of heroic responsibility—it was a warning label that read: CAUTION, CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE AND REALLY, REALLY ANGRY.
Where Spider-Man's friendly neighborhood eyes should have been, there was nothing but blank white void interrupted by a mouth full of teeth that looked like they'd been borrowed from a Great White shark who'd spent way too much time at the gym and had strong opinions about protein consumption.
"We... are Venom," it announced, voice carrying the kind of harmonics that made dental fillings vibrate, small children hide under beds, and insurance adjusters consider early retirement to somewhere very far away. "We do not require salvation, little insects. We require only sustenance... and the exquisite satisfaction of consumption."
The creature paused dramatically, because apparently even alien symbiotes understood the importance of good timing in villain monologues.
"Starting with your deliciously enhanced flesh."
Harry Potter—who at thirteen had already faced down dark wizards, alien symbiotes, Molly Weasley's disappointed sighs, and that one time Dudley had tried to flush his head down a toilet—stepped forward with the kind of swagger that could power most of Manhattan's electrical grid during peak hours.
His dragon-scale Symbiote armor caught the fractured boutique lighting like molten gold mixed with liquid confidence and a healthy dose of "I've dealt with worse than you before breakfast." That trademark grin spread across his features.
"Wow," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular blend of amusement and absolute confidence that made impossible situations seem like minor inconveniences, "that's quite the villain monologue there, discount Brock Lesnar. Did you practice that in the mirror, or does pretentious evil just come naturally to alien goo monsters with self-esteem issues?"
He tilted his head slightly, emerald eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that made adults check their insurance policies and villains reconsider their life choices.
"Also, 'exquisite satisfaction of consumption'? Really? What's next, are you going to tell us about your five-year plan for world domination and your secret recipe for human tartare? Because I've got to tell you, the whole 'scary monster with a thesaurus' thing is kind of played out."
*Ah, young Harry,* Marauder purred in his mind with that perfectly enunciated mental voice that somehow managed to sound like he was reading Shakespeare while sipping expensive tea, *always leading with charm and devastating wit. Though I feel compelled to note that the creature appears somewhat lacking in both humor appreciation and basic conversational etiquette. How dreadfully uncivilized.*
"Yeah, well," Harry replied mentally while his enhanced muscles coiled for action like springs loaded with enough potential energy to level city blocks, "some people just have no appreciation for quality banter. Their loss, really. I blame poor education and a lack of exposure to proper British sarcasm."
*Indeed,* Marauder agreed with the kind of dignified disdain that could have frozen lava, *though perhaps we might consider advancing beyond witty observations toward actual tactical engagement before the creature decides to test its enhanced acidic capabilities on innocent bystanders. I would hate for our repartee to be interrupted by civilian casualties.*
"Always the practical one," Harry muttered, but his grin only widened.
Venom's response was to move like black lightning wrapped in malevolent intent and a really bad attitude. The creature launched itself toward Harry with speed that made their previous encounter with regular Spider-Man look like a leisurely Sunday stroll through Central Park with elderly tourists who stopped to feed pigeons every five minutes.
But Harry Potter hadn't survived thirteen years of magical mayhem, alien partnerships, and increasingly ridiculous superhero scenarios by being slow on the uptake. His enhanced reflexes kicked in with precision that would have impressed professional dancers, Olympic athletes, and that one really smug cat who always landed on its feet no matter how impossible the fall.
He twisted through the air like gravity was merely a polite suggestion he'd chosen to ignore for the afternoon, ducking under claws that could have carved through tank armor like butter through warm toast.
"Oh, come on!" Harry called out cheerfully as death-dealing talons whistled past his ear with the kind of whooshing sound that usually preceded really expensive medical bills, "You're faster than Spider-Boy over there, I'll give you that, but your form is absolutely terrible! Did alien symbiotes skip combat training day at Monster Academy, or are you just naturally this sloppy?"
He spun into a counterattack that combined superhuman strength with thirteen years of magical enhancement and what could only be described as weaponized cockiness. His dragon-scale fist connected with Venom's torso with the sound of thunder having an argument with a freight train while both of them argued with the laws of physics.
Venom rocketed backward through the boutique's remaining wall display like a black cannonball with anger issues. Mannequins exploded into plastic shrapnel while designer dresses became casualties in the kind of property damage that made insurance adjusters weep into their calculators.
The creature crashed through three display cases, two support pillars, and what had probably been a very expensive mirror before ricocheting off the far wall and leaving a spider-web pattern of cracks that looked disturbingly appropriate given the circumstances.
"Holy property damage, Batman," Harry observed with cheerful satisfaction, examining his armored knuckles for any signs of wear, "I think I just punched about three million dollars' worth of haute couture into the next zip code."
"Collateral damage assessment: absolutely catastrophic," Susan announced with crisp analytical precision that made apocalyptic destruction sound like a fascinating science experiment. Her wand was already weaving counter-spells as acidic webbing hissed toward them like chemical rain with homicidal tendencies. "Also, based on current market values and my admittedly limited knowledge of luxury fashion pricing, you just punched approximately four-point-seven million dollars' worth of designer merchandise into abstract art."
She paused thoughtfully, her features scrunched in concentration as she performed rapid calculations that would have made MIT professors weep with envy.
"Make that five-point-two million. I forgot to account for the limited-edition Hermès collection that just became very limited indeed."
*The mathematical implications are indeed staggering,* Veritas noted in Susan's mind with the kind of scholarly authority that could have made college lectures actually interesting, *though I must observe that the creature's acidic modifications represent a fascinating advancement in biochemical warfare adaptation. Quite impressive, really, despite the obvious homicidal intent and questionable personal hygiene.*
*Furthermore,* Veritas continued with growing academic enthusiasm, *the symbiote appears to have enhanced the host's natural abilities by approximately 340%, while adding several new capabilities that defy conventional understanding of arachnid biology. Most intriguing indeed.*
"Add it to the tab," Harry replied with the kind of casual confidence that made impossible situations seem like minor scheduling conflicts, rolling his shoulders as he prepared for round two, "Right under 'saving the world from discount Carnage knockoffs with serious attitude problems.'"
"Tab?" Daphne drawled with aristocratic amusement that could have flash-frozen the Mediterranean, her features arranged in an expression of elegant disdain, "Darling, at this point we're looking at a bill that could fund a small country's GDP. Perhaps we should consider charging admission to our little superhero performances."
Her cryokinetic abilities were already responding to her emotional state, ice crystals beginning to form elegant patterns across the ruined boutique's surfaces. The temperature dropped several degrees in a matter of seconds, her breath creating frost sculptures that somehow managed to look both beautiful and threatening.
*Elegance in combat is indeed a virtue,* Chione observed in Daphne's mind with regal authority that could have made queens jealous, *though perhaps practicality should occasionally supersede aesthetic considerations when dealing with homicidal alien entities with poor taste in interior design.*
"Practicality is for people without style," Daphne replied mentally while ice began spreading across the floor in patterns that looked like crystalline art designed by someone who understood both beauty and tactical advantage, "Besides, if we're going to save the world, we might as well do it with panache."
Jean Grey stepped forward with Phoenix grace, her features serene despite the chaos surrounding them. Her red hair caught the emergency lighting like liquid fire while her enhanced telepathic abilities reached through cosmic frequencies toward whatever remained of Peter Parker's consciousness beneath all that alien anger.
"Spider-Man's still in there," she said with gentle certainty that carried Phoenix's cosmic authority like a warm embrace made of starlight and determination, "Suppressed, not absorbed. I can feel him—burning like a star beneath all that alien hunger and artificial rage. He's fighting, trying to surface."
Her emerald eyes glowed with inner fire as Phoenix's power danced around her like cosmic backup dancers who'd trained at the best celestial academies.
"The symbiote isn't completely evil," Jean continued, her voice taking on harmonics that seemed to resonate with frequencies beyond normal human hearing, "It's... confused. Scared. It doesn't understand cooperative partnership, only dominance and submission. It thinks consuming Peter is the only way to survive."
*The young male's consciousness blazes with admirable resilience,* Phoenix whispered in Jean's thoughts with cosmic wisdom that spanned galaxies and dimensional barriers, *though the corrupted entity grows stronger with each moment of violence and rage. Time becomes a factor of increasing significance, beloved vessel.*
"Then let's light him up properly," Daphne said with aristocratic determination that could have made glaciers form out of pure willpower, ice beginning to spread across the ruined boutique in patterns that looked like winter had decided to get artistic, "Though I must insist—try not to completely ruin my stage. Good ice work requires proper presentation, and I refuse to let alien parasites compromise my artistic integrity."
Venom pulled itself from the wreckage with fluid motion that defied several laws of physics and probably violated multiple building safety codes. The creature's laugh was the sound of rusty machinery having a nervous breakdown in a blender factory while death metal played at volumes that could shatter windows in neighboring states.
"Clever little insects," it said with a voice filtered through layers of alien menace and cosmic hunger, each word dripping with the kind of disdain usually reserved for people who didn't tip properly, "But we have consumed the spider's knowledge. Absorbed his pathetic jokes, his laughable weaknesses, his ridiculous optimism. We know how heroes fight. We know how they think. We know precisely how they suffer before they die."
The creature's massive frame rippled with enhanced musculature that looked like someone had crossed a bodybuilder with a nightmare and given the result anger management issues. Those blank white eyes fixed on Harry with the kind of focus usually reserved for particularly appetizing meals.
"And you, little wizard boy," Venom continued with malevolent glee, "you taste of power. Of enhancement. Of delicious, delicious alien symbiosis. We will consume you slowly, savoring every enhanced morsel."
Harry's grin widened into something that could have been classified as a lethal weapon in most civilized countries. His emerald eyes lit up with the kind of mischief that made adults check their life insurance and made villains wonder if they'd chosen the wrong career path.
"Oh really?" Harry asked with mock fascination, bouncing slightly on his toes like a boxer warming up for the main event, or like someone who'd just heard the funniest joke in the universe and couldn't wait to share the punchline, "See, here's the funny thing about everyone who's ever said that to me—and I mean everyone, from dark lords with no noses to alien parasites with superiority complexes to that one particularly aggressive house-elf who worked for my relatives and had serious issues with proper sock etiquette."
He paused dramatically, his Tom Welling smirk reaching levels that probably required permits in several states and possibly a few neighboring countries.
"They all ended up face-first in the pavement, wondering where their brilliant master plan went wrong and why their supposedly foolproof evil scheme had more holes than a block of Swiss cheese designed by someone with a serious grudge against dairy products."
Another pause, this one timed with the precision of a comedian who'd been working the same venue for years and knew exactly how long to milk a setup.
"But hey, maybe you'll be different. Maybe you're special. Maybe you're the first incredibly overconfident villain to actually back up the trash talk with competence instead of just more trash talk. Maybe you've got what it takes to be more than just another cautionary tale about why hubris makes for terrible life choices."
His grin reached levels that definitely violated several international agreements about the weaponization of facial expressions.
"But probably not."
*Magnificent theatrical presentation,* Marauder approved with professional admiration that could have made Broadway critics weep with envy, *though perhaps we might consider advancing beyond witty banter toward actual tactical engagement before the creature decides to test its enhanced acidic capabilities on innocent civilian bystanders who are undoubtedly filming this encounter for social media posterity.*
"Right," Harry said, cracking his knuckles with the kind of sound that made grown men reconsider their career choices, "let's teach Discount Venom here why you don't threaten people I care about. Educational time, everyone!"
Venom lunged again, this time firing webs that hissed and smoked with chemical menace. The acidic strands carved through steel support beams like they were made of butter left in the Arizona sun during a heat wave.
"Acidic web composition approximately pH 0.8," Susan rattled off with the kind of scientific fascination that made dangerous situations sound like educational opportunities, her wand already moving in complex patterns that would have impressed calligraphy masters, "Which, for those keeping score at home, is significantly more corrosive than your average battery acid and frankly disgusting from both chemical and aesthetic perspectives."
Her neutralizing charms flared with golden light that looked like liquid sunshine mixed with righteous indignation. The acidic webs fizzled into harmless vapor that smelled faintly of disappointed chemistry experiments and industrial accidents.
"Neutralized," she announced with satisfaction that could have powered a small city's electrical grid, adjusting her grip on her wand with the kind of precision that made surgical instruments jealous, "Though I feel morally obligated to inform you that deliberately modifying bodily fluids for chemical warfare purposes is both scientifically irresponsible and deeply unsanitary. Honestly, some people have no sense of proper biochemical ethics or basic laboratory safety protocols."
She paused thoughtfully, her analytical mind clearly working through the implications.
"Also, from a purely medical standpoint, the stress you're putting on your enhanced metabolism by producing those quantities of corrosive material is going to result in some seriously unpleasant side effects. We're talking kidney damage, liver dysfunction, and digestive issues that would make food poisoning look like a minor inconvenience."
"Biochemical ethics?" Harry repeated with delighted incredulity while dodging claws that could have opened seventeen different types of cans and probably a few safes, "Susan, only you could turn fighting an alien murder monster into a lecture about proper laboratory safety protocols and the long-term health consequences of biological warfare."
"Education never stops, Harry," Susan replied primly, then added with devastating sweetness that could have made sugar manufacturers weep with professional jealousy, "Even when the subject is homicidal extraterrestrial goo with poor personal hygiene, questionable life choices, and what appears to be a complete disregard for basic scientific methodology."
Venom screeched with the kind of rage that made car alarms throughout Manhattan start filing noise complaints. "CLEVER INSECTS! WE WILL FEAST ON YOUR—"
"Insects?" Daphne's voice carried the kind of aristocratic disdain that could have frozen the Sahara Desert during peak summer hours, her cryokinetic powers responding to her emotional state by flash-freezing the air into elegant spirals that looked like winter had decided to get artistic. "My dear creature, we prefer 'exceptionally attractive teenagers with superhuman abilities, devastating wit, and impeccable fashion sense even in the middle of life-threatening combat situations.' It's more accurate and significantly less rude."
Her ice abilities turned Venom's next web barrage into frozen sculptures that shattered mid-flight like deadly art installations designed by someone with a serious grudge against the concept of gravity. The temperature in the boutique dropped another twenty degrees, creating frost patterns that somehow managed to look both beautiful and threatening.
"Also," Daphne continued with calm finality that could have made arctic winds seem warm and welcoming, "winter does not negotiate with spiders. Particularly spiders with poor taste in costume design, worse taste in conversation, and what appears to be a complete inability to appreciate proper interior decorating."
She gestured elegantly at the ruined boutique around them, ice crystals dancing around her fingers like tiny frozen ballerinas.
"Look at this mess. Absolutely no sense of aesthetic cohesion whatsoever."
The battle shifted into something that looked like choreographed chaos directed by someone with an unlimited budget and a questionable regard for local property values. Venom attacked from every conceivable angle, moving with enhanced speed and strength that exceeded Spider-Man's normal capabilities by several orders of magnitude and possibly a few dimensions.
But MageX moved like extensions of the same consciousness, their alien-enhanced partnerships allowing for coordination that approached genuine telepathy while maintaining the kind of banter that made professional comedians weep with envy.
Harry intercepted bone-crushing blows with dragon-scale fists, his strength enhanced by both symbiotic partnership and thirteen years of magical training that had included everything from "Basic Hexes" to "Advanced Applications of Righteous Fury." Each punch landed with the force of a small meteor and the precision of a Swiss watchmaker having a very good day.
"You know what I love about fighting overconfident aliens?" Harry called out cheerfully while ducking under a swipe that would have decapitated a small building and possibly filed for urban renewal permits, "They always assume raw power beats tactics, coordination, and superior banter. It's like they've never watched a superhero movie in their lives!"
He spun into a combination that would have made martial arts instructors weep with professional jealousy—enhanced strength meeting magical augmentation meeting what could only be described as weaponized showing off. Each strike was precisely calculated to cause maximum impact while avoiding permanent damage to whatever remained of Peter Parker beneath the alien influence.
"Seriously!" Harry continued while Venom staggered under the assault like a drunk elephant with balance issues, "Have you people never heard of teamwork? The power of friendship? Basic tactical cooperation? It's like Evil Alien 101 completely skipped the chapter on 'Why Individual Power Means Nothing When Your Opponents Actually Like Each Other!'"
"Did you just invoke the power of friendship while punching an alien symbiote?" Jean asked with delighted incredulity, her Phoenix flames dancing around her like cosmic backup dancers who'd trained at the best celestial academies and had strong opinions about proper choreography.
Her telekinetic abilities bent reality around them with precision that made physics professors consider early retirement to somewhere the laws of nature made more sense. Venom's attacks found themselves redirected into harmless directions, while debris from their battle arranged itself into protective barriers with artistic flair.
"I absolutely did," Harry confirmed with shameless pride that could have powered most of the Eastern Seaboard, landing another combination that sent Venom staggering backward through what had once been a very expensive mirror, "And it's working better than expected, so I regret absolutely nothing!"
*The young male demonstrates remarkable tactical flexibility combined with unshakeable commitment to theatrical presentation,* Marauder noted with something approaching paternal pride mixed with professional admiration, *though his approach to psychological warfare remains... delightfully unconventional.*
"Unconventional is my middle name," Harry replied mentally while dodging acidic spit that hissed against the walls like angry chemistry experiments, "Well, actually it's James, but unconventional should definitely be in there somewhere."
Susan's wand work rewrote the laws of chemistry with flicks that turned deadly attacks into harmless light shows. Acidic webs became sparkly confetti, poisonous gases transformed into pleasant-smelling breezes, and what should have been lethal toxins turned into harmless soap bubbles that popped with tiny rainbow explosions.
"You know," Susan observed while casually neutralizing enough chemical weapons to stock a small army, "from a purely scientific standpoint, this creature's biochemistry is fascinating. It's managed to enhance every toxic capability of spider physiology while adding several new ones that shouldn't be possible without violating at least seventeen laws of thermodynamics."
*Indeed, young Susan,* Veritas agreed with scholarly enthusiasm that could have made university professors weep with professional jealousy, *the symbiote appears to operate on principles that transcend conventional understanding of biological limitations. Most intriguing, though the applications are rather concerning from an ethical standpoint.*
"Concerning?" Susan repeated while turning what should have been flesh-eating acid into harmless fruit punch, "Try absolutely terrifying. The energy requirements alone should have killed both the host and the symbiote by now, but somehow they're maintaining enhanced capabilities across multiple biological systems simultaneously."
She paused thoughtfully while deflecting claws that could have opened dimensions.
"I'm starting to think this creature doesn't understand conservation of energy any better than it understands personal boundaries or proper dental hygiene."
Daphne's winter warfare turned the ruined boutique into crystalline geometry that channeled their enemy's attacks into predictable vectors while looking absolutely stunning under the emergency lighting. Ice bridges formed and reformed with artistic precision, creating platforms that allowed the team to maintain tactical superiority while providing excellent photo opportunities.
"Darling," Daphne called out while flash-freezing acidic projectiles into harmless ice sculptures, "could you possibly try to be more predictable? My ice work functions best when the target follows basic geometric principles instead of flailing about like a caffeinated octopus with anger management issues."
*The young female demonstrates admirable tactical adaptation,* Chione observed with regal approval that could have made winter itself jealous, *though perhaps aesthetic considerations might occasionally yield to practical necessities when facing opponents with such destructive capabilities.*
"Aesthetic considerations are practical necessities," Daphne replied mentally while creating an ice wall that looked like crystalline artwork and functioned like adamantium, "If we're going to save the world, we should do it with style. Otherwise, what's the point?"
The battle continued with the kind of escalating absurdity that made normal superhero fights look like casual disagreements. Venom attacked with everything in its enhanced arsenal—acidic webs, poisonous gas, claws that could cut through steel, strength that could crush cars, and the kind of rage that made volcanic eruptions seem calm and reasonable.
But MageX had been training together for months, their alien partnerships creating synchronization that went beyond mere teamwork into something approaching actual telepathy. They moved like dancers performing a routine they'd practiced for years, each member anticipating the others' actions with precision that made professional athletes weep with envy.
Harry's strength met Jean's telekinetic redirection, sending Venom's attacks back with interest and compound interest. Susan's chemical neutralization combined with Daphne's environmental control, turning the ruined boutique into a tactical advantage that looked like an art installation designed by someone with serious opinions about proper combat choreography.
"This is actually kind of fun!" Harry called out cheerfully while landing a uppercut that sent Venom through what had probably been a very expensive ceiling, "In a 'completely insane and definitely traumatizing' kind of way, but still fun!"
"Your definition of fun continues to concern me," Susan replied while turning poisonous gas into harmless glitter that sparkled prettily in the emergency lighting, "though I must admit the biochemical applications of this encounter are absolutely fascinating from an academic standpoint."
"Academia can wait," Jean said with Phoenix authority, her cosmic flames reaching out like gentle fingers toward the raging creature that had once been Peter Parker, "Right now, we need to focus on separating the symbiote from its host without killing either of them."
Her telepathic abilities pushed deeper, searching through layers of alien hunger and artificial rage for the spark of consciousness that was definitely, absolutely still Spider-Man.
*The young male's spirit burns brighter than expected,* Phoenix observed with cosmic wisdom that spanned dimensions, *though the symbiote's influence grows stronger with each moment of combat. We must act soon, beloved vessel, before the corruption becomes too deep to reverse.*
"I'm working on it," Jean muttered, sweat beading on her forehead as she fought to maintain telepathic contact through the alien interference, "But it's like trying to perform surgery during an earthquake while blindfolded and someone's playing death metal at volumes that violate noise ordinances."
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, MageX managed to coordinate their attacks into something approaching a tactical masterpiece. Harry's enhanced strength, Jean's telekinetic precision, Susan's chemical mastery, and Daphne's environmental control combined into a sustained assault that left Venom caught in a web of telekinetic restraints, magical bindings, neutralizing spells, and crystalline ice that limited its movement to ineffectual struggling.
The creature roared with frustration that could have registered on seismographs in neighboring states, "WE ARE VENOM! WE ARE POWER! WE ARE—"
"You're trapped," Harry interrupted with cheerful finality, his dragon-scale armor gleaming under emergency lighting while his emerald eyes held the kind of steady focus that had carried him through thirteen years of refusing to let darkness win, "Also, you're loud, destructive, and frankly kind of repetitive. Has anyone ever told you that your villain monologues could use some work? Maybe take a creative writing class or something?"
But there was something different in the creature's voice now—uncertainty creeping in around the edges, like cosmic confidence was beginning to crack under pressure from something stronger than alien hunger.
*Now, Harry,* Marauder suggested with gentle authority, *while the creature is restrained and its defenses are compromised. Reach out to the human consciousness beneath the alien influence.*
Harry stepped forward, his posture shifting from battle-ready to something more compassionate, more gentle. When he spoke, his voice carried authority that had nothing to do with enhanced abilities and everything to do with thirteen years of understanding what it meant to have darkness trying to consume you from the inside.
"Wrong," he said with quiet conviction that somehow carried more weight than all his previous banter and wisecracks combined, "You're not Venom. You're Spider-Man. You're the kid who cracks jokes during fights because laughter is stronger than fear, because humor makes the scary stuff manageable, because sometimes a well-timed quip is the difference between hope and despair."
The black mask covering Peter's face began to flicker, solid alien matter becoming translucent enough to reveal human features beneath—young, scared, but unmistakably the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man they'd been trying to save.
"You're the kid who saves people," Harry continued, his voice warming with genuine affection that cut through alien interference like sunlight through storm clouds, "All people, even the ones who don't deserve it, especially the ones who think they don't deserve it. You're the kid who believes in second chances because you know everyone screws up, everyone makes mistakes, and everyone can choose to be better than they were yesterday."
The blank white eyes wavered, revealing glimpses of brown that were unmistakably human, unmistakably Peter Parker trying to fight his way back to the surface.
"You know what makes you special, Spider-Man?" Harry asked with the kind of sincerity that could stop traffic and make cynics reconsider their life choices, "It's not the superpowers. It's not the enhanced abilities or the spectacular web-slinging or even that ridiculous costume that somehow manages to be both practical and iconic."
He smiled, and for a moment he looked less like a superhero and more like what he really was—a thirteen-year-old kid who understood what it meant to fight for the people you cared about.
"It's the fact that you never stop caring. Never stop trying. Never stop believing that tomorrow can be better than today if someone's willing to fight for it, if someone's willing to stand up and say 'No, this isn't right, and I'm going to do something about it.'"
The alien substance coating Peter's frame began to recede, hesitantly, like two different consciousnesses were finally beginning to have a conversation instead of a fight.
"Help me," came a voice that broke through alien interference like sunrise after the longest night—young, scared, desperate, but still recognizably the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man they'd been trying to save, "Please. I can feel it trying to take over again. It's so hungry, and it makes the hunger feel like it's mine. Like I want the things it wants. Like maybe consuming people would make the emptiness go away."
Tears were streaming down what they could see of Peter's face, mixing with the receding black substance.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Peter whispered, his voice cracking with the kind of vulnerability that made heroes out of ordinary people, "But it's so hard to remember why that matters when everything feels like it's made of hunger and anger and this terrible, terrible emptiness that nothing seems to fill."
Jean moved closer with Phoenix grace, her cosmic aura flickering warm gold while her telepathic abilities reached past alien defenses to gently touch whatever remained of Peter's original consciousness.
"You don't have to fight it alone," she said with gentle certainty that carried cosmic authority like a warm embrace made of starlight and determination, "We understand what you're going through better than you might think. Our symbiotes tried similar approaches when we first bonded—not this extreme, but the principle was the same. The hunger, the anger, the feeling that maybe violence was more efficient than compassion."
*Truth,* Phoenix confirmed in harmonious whispers that resonated across dimensional barriers, *though our entities possessed greater wisdom regarding cooperative partnerships versus parasitic domination. This creature requires extensive education in appropriate symbiotic behavior and basic interpersonal relationship skills.*
"The difference," Susan added with analytical precision that made psychological evaluation sound like mathematical proof, "is that healthy symbiosis enhances what you already are instead of replacing it with something else. Our partners make us more ourselves, not less ourselves. They amplify our strengths without trying to eliminate what makes us human."
She gestured with her wand, weaving diagnostic spells that shimmered with golden light.
"Think of it like a really good friendship," Susan continued with the kind of practical wisdom that made complex concepts understandable, "The best friends don't try to change who you are fundamentally. They help you become the best possible version of yourself while still being recognizably you."
*Precisely,* Veritas agreed with scholarly authority that could have made relationship counselors weep with professional admiration, *cooperative symbiosis should result in mutual enhancement rather than unilateral consumption. Both parties benefit while maintaining individual identity and autonomy.*
"Partners," Harry emphasized with that trademark grin that could power half of Manhattan, gesturing to his teammates with obvious affection and pride, "not parasites. Take it from us—we make symbiosis look good because we do it right."
*Your phrasing continues to require refinement,* Marauder observed with long-suffering patience that somehow managed to sound fond, *though the sentiment is accurate. Cooperative partnership produces superior outcomes compared to hostile takeover attempts and unilateral consumption strategies.*
"Besides," Daphne added with aristocratic authority that made difficult propositions sound like royal decrees while her ice crystals formed supportive patterns around the struggling Peter, "proper symbiosis should be elegant. Refined. This whole 'consume everything' approach lacks sophistication and basic aesthetic appeal."
*Indeed,* Chione agreed with regal approval that could have made winter itself jealous, *true partnership should enhance both parties' natural grace and dignity rather than reducing them to base appetite and uncontrolled aggression.*
The black substance covering Peter's frame continued to recede, slowly, hesitantly, like someone learning to trust again after being betrayed. What emerged was definitely Peter Parker—younger than they'd expected, probably no more than sixteen, with the kind of earnest face that made people want to help him carry his groceries.
"We can teach you both," Jean said with Phoenix warmth that made impossible things seem achievable, "How to be partners instead of predator and prey. How to enhance each other instead of consuming each other. How to be stronger together than either of you could be alone."
"Partners," the symbiote spoke for the first time in a voice that wasn't filtered through layers of alien menace, though it still carried an otherworldly quality that made the air vibrate slightly, "We... do not understand this concept. Survival requires consumption. Strength requires domination. This is the way of our kind across the cosmos."
"Well then," Harry said with the kind of confidence that could convince people that impossible things were just interesting challenges, "welcome to Earth, where we do things differently. Lesson one in Human Cooperation 101: strength actually comes from working together, not from eating each other."
---
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