Stan Lee & Steve Ditko,
THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN #29 (1963)

#04 ...Ready For It?

Scout's twilit apartment is where we lay our scene: in the late evening, as dusk slides over the city sweet and syrup-like, she sits on a brand-new TOBIAS chair by one of the windows that overlook the street. With her cello resting snugly between her legs and her phone—open to a tuning app—balanced atop her knee, she and Mac drew up their plan between the sounds of her cello. A string, D, G, C, and E.

          GARGAN: (sitting on the couch, examining a spiral-bound notebook Scout had put aside for the mission) Yeah, I can't read your handwriting for shit.

          SCOUT: Are you stupid?

          GARGAN: Maybe.

          GARGAN: I don't blame you, Dex should'a put you in real school instead of that homeschooling, private tutor B.S.

          SCOUT: You don't say. Just try again.

          GARGAN: (squinting) Broccoli... Armada... Turtle?

          SCOUT: You're such a fucking asshole.

          GARGAN: That is not the NATO phonetic alphabet, girlie.

          SCOUT: You're not just stupid, you're also blind.

          GARGAN: (gasping) Brooklyn Army Terminal! Look, we got there in the end.

          SCOUT: I hope Spider-Man kills you.

          GARGAN: Avenge me if he does, please 'n' thank you.

          SCOUT: The A-word gives me the shivers.

          GARGAN: I said avenge, not Avengers.

          SCOUT: Close enough. Do I look like Captain America to you?

          GARGAN: If you bleached your hair, you could be good for it.

          SCOUT: I'm gonna kill myself.

          GARGAN: Well, don't do that.

Scout pointed her phone accusatorially at Gargan. It was one of the newer iPhone models, safe inside a bulky case that could probably withstand successive nuclear fallouts: not a weapon to be reckoned with.

          SCOUT: Can we focus, please?

Gargan put his hands up as if to surrender.

          GARGAN: Yeah? Calm down.

          SCOUT: I'm calm, I'm cool.

          GARGAN: ... Are you?

          SCOUT: Yes. I'm cool as a cucumber.

          GARGAN: 'M not gonna unpack that.

          GARGAN: Brooklyn Army Terminal?

          SCOUT: (huffing) Brooklyn Army Terminal. It's an industrial area, maybe a little too close to tourist spots, but it'll do the job.

          GARGAN: The job being...?

          SCOUT: Serving as a staging ground for our little tête-à-tête.

          GARGAN: Right, right.

          SCOUT: You're going to cause some moderate property damage.

          GARGAN: Aw, only moderate?

          SCOUT: Pace yourself, Mac.

          SCOUT: It just needs to be enough to get Spider-Man's attention. But—

          GARGAN: (smile growing) —but?!

          SCOUT: You can rough him up a little, if it so pleases you.

          GARGAN: It does.

          SCOUT: Psycho.

          GARGAN: Takes one to know one.

          SCOUT: Duh. I meant it affectionately. Anyways—

          SCOUT: —once you've fucked with him a bit, I'll step in and save the day.

          GARGAN: I've been talking to Spencer Smythe about this, actually. He has an old prototype of the Scorpion suit that he says I'm 'permitted' to destroy.

          SCOUT: That's nice of him.

          GARGAN: Yeah, you'd think he'd be a total weirdo, but he's actually not so bad.

Cut-to the Empire State University secondary campus, located up in Harlem. Like the main location in Greenwich (facing Washington Square Park) it was difficult to tell where the university ended and the city began; and vice versa. Gargan led her across city blocks, intersections, down streets and through alleyways: all Scout had to look to were the warm-red ESU banners that hung from buildings owned by the institution. Gargan had traded his usual Yankees baseball cap for a second-hand red ESU one, putting on one of his nicer jackets instead of his well-worn, half-a-decade-old Carhartt to blend in with gentrified Harlem and the youth. The pair passed ancillary science buildings—the bulk and the best of ESU's facilities were downtown—and the ESU Stark School of Engineering, slipping through small crowds of students on their way to evening classes, chatting and laughing. Eventually, they landed at an office complex a couple blocks from campus: though not exactly isolated, since no-one and nothing truly could be in a city like this one, it was the only building in sight with any kind of ESU signage.

From the street, the building looked unassuming. If not unassuming, then Scout would go as far as to say sleazy. In a sea of refurbishment and renewal, it looked out of place, a relic from an old, B-list eighties movie. Blocky, brutalist, bit of an eyesore. Gargan adjusted his cap and pushed open the double doors into the lobby. Scout followed him in silence over dusty carpet and through stale air conditioning, stopping where he had in front of the ground-floor elevator.

She reached to call for the elevator, but Gargan shook his head. He yawned, then cocked his head towards the emergency evacuation stairwell to their left. Scout arched an eyebrow, but didn't argue. She took the lead, pushing open the fire door and heading down, down, down.

After descending what Scout approximated was about six floors beneath ground level, Mac placed a hand on her shoulder and sidestepped around her. They went out another fire door; this one leading down a hallway. Long, dark, narrow. No visible end.

          SCOUT: Not ominous at all.

          GARGAN: Since when were you scared of the dark?

          SCOUT: I'm not scared of the dark, I'm scared of dark hallways. Get it right.

          GARGAN: Seriously?

          SCOUT: Yeah, it's a real condition. They got support groups and everything.

          GARGAN: No shit. What's it called?

          SCOUT: Fuck-you-a-phobia.

GARGAN: ...

GARGAN: I don't like you.

Scout scoffed gently, but when he started walking—shaking his head, rolling his eyes—followed him without hesitation. Every so often the ceiling and walls would shudder, followed by the screeching sound of metal on metal; Scout reckoned they were close to the subway network. She also decided, about four minutes into the long-ass hallway, that this ESU facility was either a) off-the-books, or b) not really an ESU facility at all.

Finally, they reached another fire door. On the wall adjacent was a card reader. Gargan pulled out a blank metal card and swiped it. The little light on the reader flashed green and the fire door swung open.

Yeah, definitely not an ESU facility.

Smythe's workshop was a vast, concrete box, the size of an Olympic swimming pool with walls stretching about three storeys high. Fluorescent lights gave the space a cold, clinical feel: Scout had expected the workshop to be messy, disordered, bits and bobs everywhere with every square inch of clutter screaming "MAD SCIENTIST!". Part of her thought it'd be almost comical.

This was worse. Towards the centre of the workshop there were wide, marble-pale workbenches; mechanical parts suspended in the air by wires like spiderwebs for examination and further tweaking; stainless-steel shelves housing various parts and materials. That was all good and fine. What drew Scout's attention were the spiders. She couldn't even begin to estimate how many specimens Smythe had. They covered almost every vertical surface, decorating the workshop wall-to-wall. Pinned, framed, clusters of eyes lifeless and shiny like the glass they were trapped behind.

SCOUT: Jesus Christ. No wonder my dad likes him.

GARGAN: (shaking his head, as if to demonstrate to Scout he didn't approve) Tell me about it.

Before the Blip—before New York, even—Scout had lived with her family up north, in New Hampshire. Silverwood, the estate was called, named for its proximity to the White Mountains. The property was green in the spring, stark white in winter and the house, which Scout hadn't visited in years, didn't even know if it was still in her father's extensive portfolio of properties and assets, had dozens of rooms. For a child with no friends, no freedom, it was the closest thing she had to fantasy. When she wasn't required to train, or practice her cello, Scout would run around the house, playing pretend with herself. Sometimes her babysitter Annie would supervise, sometimes she would even join in, but for the most part, Scout was alone.

Dexter was often away, and while he was gone, he gave his family free rein of the house. Scout played in every room but one: her father's study, at the very end of the third-storey hallway. His study was where he kept his weapons, and his spiders—a collection of arachnids diverse and comprehensive, each pinned up by their eight limbs. Still, perfect, and dead.

Scout was not scared of spiders. But she could not stomach that room, nor anything within its four curated walls. That creature fear did not change, nor subside, even as she grew older. If anything, it only became stronger.

SMYTHE: Gargan!

A man's voice, gravelly but frail, pulled Scout back to New York, back underground. While Gargan stepped forward, she fell back, taking a moment to observe the two first.

Dr. Spencer Smythe was older than she expected him to be but did, to some extent, fit the Mad Scientist image she'd been cultivating in her mind. He was strangely tall and dainty, elegant looking almost, but dressed informally in all black: shirt, jeans, hoodie. He had white hair—silver in this light—and dark blue eyes. Cold and chilling. He was taller than Gargan by a couple inches, something that made Scout indescribably uncomfortable. She didn't like him, but the only person in the world who cared who-slash-what she did or didn't like—Gargan—couldn't do shit about it.

GARGAN: Spencer. Good to see you.

SMYTHE: You too. (turning to Scout,) This is Dexter's daughter?

SCOUT: That's me.

SMYTHE: Scarlett, isn't it?

SCOUT: I prefer Scout.

SMYTHE: (arching an eyebrow, but extending a hand to shake nevertheless,) It's pleasure to meet you officially, Scout.

SCOUT: (glancing at Gargan with the we-have-to-debrief-this-later look, before stepping up to shake Smythe's hand) Nice to meet you too, Doctor.

SMYTHE: Spencer, please.

SCOUT: My sister is named Spencer, it's too confusing.

GARGAN: (snorting) Y'know, she's named after him.

Scout did not know that.

SCOUT: ...

SMYTHE: I believe Dexter was hoping for a boy.

SCOUT: You know, that makes a lot of sense.

SCOUT: (wanting to change the subject) I like your... place.

SMYTHE: Thank you.

SCOUT: I'm guessing you're not actually associated with Empire State University? I saw the little banner outside, but I can't imagine they're down with all... (gesturing vaguely to the spiders) this. That why you're underground?

SMYTHE: (shrugging) I'm professor emeritus at ESU, but you're right. They're not so interested in this work as they were with my more... conventional experiments. My son's taken over my position at the main ESUS robotics labs downtown. He doesn't care much for the spider stuff.

SCOUT: (to herself) You don't fucking say.

GARGAN: (eyeing Scout warily) Let's talk shop.

SMYTHE: Yes, let's.

GARGAN: Dexter's told you everything?

SMYTHE: Of course. I've been setting things up for us all, all week.

SCOUT: 'Things' being?

SMYTHE: Walk with me.

So they did, Scout falling into step behind Gargan like one single scorpion might shield her from an army of spiders. They followed Smythe to the centre of his workshop, where—strung up—was a battle suit. Scout recognised it immediately: the Scorpion suit.

It was beautiful. Scout had no other words.

SMYTHE: (proudly) And this is just the prototype.

SCOUT: It's incredible.

GARGAN: Jealous?

SCOUT: A little.

SMYTHE: This is the most basic version of the suit. I'm currently working on adding an electro-mechanical tail controlled by a cybernetic link to the chip I've implanted in Mac's back. It'll respond to neural impulses as well as conscious mental commands.

GARGAN: And what we talked about?

SMYTHE: Yes. It'll be fitted with a functional 'barb' that can shoot acid, small incendiary projectiles, or even the neurotoxin we discussed.

SCOUT: Neurotoxin?

GARGAN: I was hoping you could help me out with that one, Little Red. But we'll chat about that later.

SCOUT: Okay. (nodding at the Mk. I suit) Where are the weak points?

SMYTHE: The exoskeleton in this one isn't as structurally sound as I would like. Mac, turn around?

Gargan did as told, shrugging off his jacket and pulling up the back of his shirt to reveal the small of his back: embedded in his spine and protruding through the flesh was a small, rectangular chip. Scout blinked.

SMYTHE: Right here, (he tapped the chip, Gargan winced) is where the suit connects to the suit. If you damage the suit right here, (he pointed to the corresponding area on the suit) it'll disconnect from Mac and come apart.

SMYTHE: We're still working out the side effects of the serum injected into Mac during his surgery, but—

SCOUT: —Excuse me?

          GARGAN: Shit.

          SCOUT: What are you talking about?

          SMYTHE: She doesn't know?

          GARGAN: (pulling down his shirt and putting his jacket back on,) Well, she does now.

          SCOUT: Mac, what's going on?

          SMYTHE: The surgery wasn't just to fit him out for the neural implant and chip required to use the Scorpion suit. He also received a prototype of a super-soldier serum, based on the physiology of the Arizona bark scorpion.

          GARGAN: Centruroides sculpturatus.

          SCOUT: ...

          SCOUT: Is it safe?

          GARGAN: So far, yeah.

          SCOUT: (frowning) What does it do?

          SMYTHE: It provides the subject with superhuman strength, speed, stamina, durability, agility, and reflexes.

          SCOUT: Who else have you tested it on?

          SMYTHE: MacDonald here is the first.

          SCOUT: (staring at Mac) Why would you agree to that?

          GARGAN: Your dad asked me to. You know I couldn't say no.

He was right, she did know.

          SCOUT: (shaking her head) So, what? I damage the suit at the base of its back, it comes loose, and Mac beats me to death with his crazy scorpion powers?

          GARGAN: Lettie, c'mon.

          SCOUT: Don't call me that.

          SMYTHE: ...

          SMYTHE: The specifics of your, ah, performance, are up to you. But once the suit's off, I believe Spider-Man will be sufficiently convinced of your abilities, as well as your allegiance. The suit does give quite the show.

          SCOUT: Oh, I'm sure.

          SMYTHE: I also have something for you.

Smythe rifled around in one of the workbenches' drawers for a moment before procuring a small black box. He offered it to Scout, who took it, forcing all emotion from her expression. Inside the box: a small, golden brooch, made in the shape of a spider.

          SMYTHE: It's a—

          SCOUT: —Bodycam, yeah, I know. It's standard-issue Web equipment.

          SMYTHE: This one I've made specially for your assignment. It has over forty-eight hours of battery life, and nearly 500 gigabytes of storage. That's 500 gigabytes of footage and data of Spider-Man we'll be able to study, and hopefully, it'll help us divulge whatever secrets he's hiding.

          GARGAN: Great. Spencer, can you have this all dropped off at the Greenwich address?

          SMYTHE: Yes, I can.

          GARGAN: Thank you again. Are we done here, then?

          SCOUT: Yeah, I think we are.

🕸️

By the time they returned to the apartment, it was dark.

          GARGAN: Look, I said he wasn't a total weirdo. That still leaves breathing room for an acceptable amount of weird.

          SCOUT: 'Acceptable'? He's a spider-obsessed freak with one foot in the grave.

          GARGAN: At this point, who do we know that isn't?

          SCOUT: Oh, ha ha.

Not wanting to talk about her concerns, let alone think about them, Scout put all her efforts into working on her own suit: one considerably less high-tech, but a moving part in their Let's-Kill-Spider-Man machine nevertheless. She set up a sewing machine at the dining table, thick red fabric pooling on the floor like the stage curtains closing at the final act's conclusion. Gargan sat opposite her, looking between from what he could see of the sewing machine, and his phone.

          GARGAN: You want help?

          SCOUT: No.

          GARGAN: C'mon, girlie, don't be like that.

          SCOUT: I'm not being like anything.

          GARGAN: You are. Let's talk about it—please?

          SCOUT: Nope. I'm busy.

          GARGAN: Scout...

          SCOUT: I said no.

          GARGAN: ...

          GARGAN: Fine.

          GARGAN: But you need to know it was down to you or me. One of us was gonna get it whether we liked it or not. I wasn't gonna let it be you.

          SCOUT: ...

          GARGAN: Now can I please help you?

          SCOUT: Okay.

They swapped places, Scout sitting across from him. She folded her arms and watched him work. The hum of the sewing machine, low and heady, comforted her.

          GARGAN: This is a bit showy, don'tcha think?

She rejected embellishment on principle: survival before beauty any day. But he was right. Would the set pieces be enough? The theatrics, the narrative?

          SCOUT: Isn't that the point?

          GARGAN: I guess so. At least we don't have to worry about me blowing your cover when I call you Little Red.

          SCOUT: (snorting gently) Lucky us.

          SCOUT: Maybe you should be the Wolf instead of the Scorpion.

          GARGAN: Nah, 'm too blond. Spidey wouldn't buy it.

          SCOUT: And you think he'll buy Scorpion?

          GARGAN: (earnestly) Yeah.

          SCOUT: How's your supervillain voice?

          GARGAN: I've never really thought about it?

          SCOUT: Well, you gotta start fine-tuning, sooner rather than later.

          GARGAN: (clearing his throat) I've got you now, Spider-Man!

          SCOUT: (laughing) My god, that's awful. Could you be any more tacky?

          GARGAN: Do you know any classy supervillains? Tackiness is their bread and butter.

          SCOUT: You could be the first.

          GARGAN: Okay, lemme try again: Spider-Man, step into my—

A knock at the door.

          GRAHAM: (muffled) Hey, Scarlett? You home?

          GARGAN: (to Scout) So this random kid is allowed to call you Scarlett, but the crazy mad scientist isn't?

          SCOUT: Yup.

She got up to answer the door. Graham Grant stood in the doorway, grinning like a little kid.

          GRAHAM: Hi.

          SCOUT: ... Hi. Can I help you?

          GRAHAM: Yes. I mean, um, no. Have you eaten?

          SCOUT: ...No?

          GRAHAM: Good. Well, not good, but, uh—my brother and I got takeout, we had some extra dim sum. Thought maybe you might want it.

Scout heard Mac laugh. She rolled her eyes—at him, not Graham—and managed a smile.

          SCOUT: That's really sweet of you to think of me.

          GRAHAM: Um, yeah. (He held out a plastic takeaway bag,) Here.

          SCOUT: (taking the bag) Thanks.

          SCOUT: So...

          GRAHAM: So.

          SCOUT: ...

          SCOUT: I'd love to chat, but I actually have a lot to do right now—

          GRAHAM: Oh, yeah, of course, of course—

          SCOUT: But thank you so much for the dim sum. I'll see you around?

          GRAHAM: Yeah. I hope so.

Scout went to close the door—

          GRAHAM: Sorry, but uh... I was wondering. Is that you we can hear playing the cello sometimes?

          SCOUT: ... Yeah it is, sorry. I didn't know you could hear it from the first floor. My bad, I'll stop.

          GRAHAM: No, no— (laughing, through his teeth) —you don't have to stop. I was just asking.

          GRAHAM: You play beautifully.

          SCOUT: Thank you.

          GRAHAM: Okay, I'll let you go.

He smiled at her, then was gone. Scout stared at his absence in the hallway then, clearing her throat for no-one but herself, closed the door and returned to the dining table, clutching her bag of dim sum so tightly her knuckles went white.

GARGAN: (mockingly) You play beauuuuuutifully.

SCOUT: Oh, shut up.

GARGAN: We had some extra dim sum, thought maybe you might want it—gross. Is that a euphemism? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

SCOUT: You can't even spell the word 'euphemism', dumbass. Stop being so bitter.

GARGAN: 'M not bitter.

SCOUT: So are.

GARGAN: Am not.

SCOUT: Even you were young once. You didn't have a girl?

GARGAN: I did.

SCOUT: Then you get it.

GARGAN: Nope. I was a lot more straightforward than your little friend here. No need for dim sum when you got the Gargan family charm... amongst other things.

SCOUT: Ew.

Scout tore open the plastic bag and pulled out the plastic-coated paper box of dim sum, inhaling the sweet, sweet smell of MSG and sunflower oil-cooked Asian cuisine. With her fingers she picked out a prawn (potentially pork) dumpling and brought it up to her mouth—

GARGAN: You're gonna eat that? It could be drugged or poisoned or something.

SCOUT: ...

SCOUT: Good point. Here!

Over the tabletop, sewing machine and fabric, Scout held out the dumpling for Gargan to take. He made a face, but bit it out of her fingers regardless, chewing then swallowing.

GARGAN: Not drugged. Or poisoned.

GARGAN: I think.

SCOUT: Good enough for me.

SCOUT: Thank you for your service!

They split the remaining dumplings and continued on with Scout's costume. By midnight, it was finished, save for the cloak. Scout tried everything else on in the downstairs bathroom, pivoting in the mirror with her expression pinched. It had come together exactly as planned—who knew Gargan was such a skilled seamstress?—but Scout had not accounted for what might ensue when she actually put the costume on. It was flattering, for sure, accentuating her chest, abs, thighs, but it was tighter than she anticipated it would be, clinging to her body like a second skin or perhaps, a cage.

She made herself stand straight, smile. With her accompanying domino mask—a simple, seamless black—Scout could admit she at least looked the part. She remembered, years ago now, when she'd seen a superhero for the first time: real, golden, and true. Captain America and the Avengers, battle-worn and weary after the Incident that ravaged New York City. Scout and Spencer had watched the news from the safety of New Hampshire, sat on the couch with their eyes glued to the screen. They'd been enamoured with Black Widow in particular, recognising her moniker from stories told to them by Annie while she braided their hair.

If Scout had ever feared spiders, they were the ones in Annie's retellings; but never Natalia Romanova, the most famous Black Widow of all. Scout knew who she was the moment she saw her on the screen, even amongst the rubble, the destruction. It was her hair, bright red like blood.

Scout ran a hand through her own hair, now. So little of herself belonged to her. Here she was, playing pretend again, not Scout or Scarlett or Lettie but someone else, someone new entirely. She imagined what Annie might think of her now, her Black Widow bodyguard: what are you, Lets, some kind of hero? She'd laugh dryly, shake her head. Let me call up Nat and see if she needs a sidekick.

Better the Huntress than the hunted, right?

She turned around in the mirror again, inspecting herself. Her suit was made of two coordinated parts: a top, cropped to show her midriff; and boy shorts. Both were black and made with ballistic weave—as was her cloak, which Gargan was still finishing. The sound of the sewing machine in the next room again soothed her, the knowledge of Gargan's presence, his faith in her and this mission. Scout leaned down to adjust her boots and armguards (both deep red, shock-absorbent and bulletproof) then stepped out of the bathroom, no longer wanting to see her reflection, even in periphery.

GARGAN: (looking up from the cloak, which he was altering by hand now) How does it feel?

SCOUT: Well, it fits.

GARGAN: ...

GARGAN: Are you okay?

SCOUT: Will be.

GARGAN: Alright. Well, this is done. You want me to put it on you?

SCOUT: Sure.

Gargan rose and moved over to where Scout stood by the bathroom doorway, reaching to pull the cloak around her shoulders and fasten it. He adjusted how it fell around her shoulders, then pulled up the hood to cover her hair.

GARGAN: Et voilà.

SCOUT: Oui oui baguette, asshole.

GARGAN: (pulling her hood down over her face) You're so uncultured.

SCOUT: 'N' whose fault is that?

Gargan rolled his eyes and returned to the dining table, sitting down again to begin packing up the sewing machine and supplies.

GARGAN: You got a weapon? I don't Spider-Man very well but I doubt he's gonna wanna partner up with you if you're throwing knives everywhere and shooting people.

SCOUT: What, you don't think Spider-Man is pro-gun?

GARGAN: (scoffing) No I don't, believe it or not.

SCOUT: Well—

Scout went upstairs to the master bedroom, moving through the dark to grab a long, black case from the walk-in wardrobe. Then, carrying it lengthways, she came back downstairs and placed the case flat on dining table. A pause for dramatic effect, then she opened it up to reveal a recurve bow. Made from warm, dark wood, the bow was hand-carved intricately, its limbs telling its own fairytale. After it was placed in her possession, Scout had spent hours examining the bow, tracing her fingertips over wooden wolves, trees, but she wouldn't be surprised to learn there was more to the weapon than what she'd noticed already.

SCOUT: It is, decidedly, not a gun.

Gargan stared at the open case.

GARGAN: It's beautiful. How'd you get your hands on something like that?

SCOUT: I have my ways.

GARGAN: 'M serious.

SCOUT: (reaching for the bow, drawing and aiming at Gargan even though she had no arrows on her; she closed one eye, as if in competition,) Got it from a family friend.

GARGAN: Since when do the DeWitts have family friends?

SCOUT: I did say 'family friend', singular. (She shrugged,) Way before you joined I had a babysitter-slash-bodyguard, Dad had her shipped over here all the way from the Red Room. The Red Room. You know Amelia, the woman we—

GARGAN: —Yep.

SCOUT: Well, Amelia was her mom. She was brought here to like, play family, but I guess she didn't want that 'cause she ended up doing a lot of Web stuff for my dad. Training, killing, that sort. Makes sense, she was basically bred for that kind of thing.

GARGAN: Oh, yeah?

SCOUT: Yeah.

Gargan set his jaw. Scout pretended not to notice.

SCOUT: She looked after me and Spence for a couple years, then she went away for college. Visited us a few times, but it over time we saw her less and less because she got engaged. (Pause.) I remember, she had the most beautiful engagement ring. I didn't really understand what it meant back then, to be engaged, but I wanted a ring just like hers.

GARGAN: Right.

SCOUT: I don't know what happened to the ring, 'cause she's married to someone else now. I think she's gotta be the only person ever who's managed to leave the Web alive.

SCOUT: It's a shame you weren't around at the same time she was. You would've liked her.

GARGAN: You reckon?

SCOUT: Yeah. She was real funny; quick and mean with it, the same way you are. And, oh my god! You have the same old-ass taste in music as she did. David Bowie this, David Bowie that. Match made in heaven. But she's married now, so I guess not.

SCOUT: I guess she's the opposite of a Widow now, then: a wife. Hah.

GARGAN: Hah, so clever.

GARGAN: Let's go over the plan again.

SCOUT: But do you like my bow? I think it really adds to the whole, 'Little Red Riding Hood' thing I got going on here.

GARGAN: Sure.

SCOUT: 'Sure'. That's not promising.

Scout gave him the big eyes.

GARGAN: (sighing) Yes, Scout, I like your bow.

SCOUT: Thank you.

GARGAN: Don't think Little Red knew how to shoot, though.

SCOUT: (shrugging) Call it a modern retelling.

GARGAN: How feminist of you.

SCOUT: Do you even know how to spell the word 'feminist'?

GARGAN: What is this running gag of yours that you keep saying I can't spell?

SCOUT: It's funny!

GARGAN: I went to West Point.

SCOUT: And? It's still funny.

GARGAN: ...

SCOUT: ...

GARGAN: ...

SCOUT: ...

GARGAN: Fuck this, 'm going home.

SCOUT: Noooo, stay.

After negotiations—in which, in lieu of an apology, Scout offered him two BELÖNING, because apparently Gargan found chocolate moose more valuable than vindication—they went over the plan once more. By one a.m., Scout was satisfied. Even if things didn't go to plan, she and Mac made a great team. Better than great, actually: she would go as far as to call them a perfect team.

Spider-Man had a lot to live up to.

Then again, so did she.

🕸  this is definitely not a backdoor pilot chapter for CREATURE FEAR 😱😱 i'm pretty sure last chapter i said that scout and peter would meet in this one but i #Lied.

🕸️ lol! it will definitely happen next chapter and i mean that, i swear on mac gargan. for this chapter i just wanted to focus on a more positive aspect of scout and mac's familial relationship, after the bittersweet development last chapter.

🕸️ this chapter also serves to intertwine things more with CF. these stories definitely won't be reliant on each other but i'm very focused on CF right now so... i would suggest jumping ship /lh LMFAO. jokes aside, if you're reading CF alongside UNSPUN you'll catch some references, maybe even spoilers, for that story. hee hee hee.

🕸️ this chapter is also helping set the scene for spider-slayer bullshit as well. me versus bayports-ifying various spider-man villains in a way that's either better or worse than kevin feige... it's yet to be seen. i mean, these guys aren't connected to stark industries, but they are very much connected to the web, so.

🕸️ please let me know what you think of this chapter! if you liked it, vote and comment! pleeeease. i need validation 😟😟

GRAPHIC BY SOULOFSTAARS 🫂