Chapter 1: A Cat's Mischief
The stolen power thrummed against Felicia’s ribs, a delicious, illicit heartbeat sealed within the leather pouch hanging between her breasts. She’d broken into the Sanctum Sanctorum for the thrill, for the sheer audacity of it, but this… this was a bonus she hadn’t dared dream of. A fragment of something raw and reality-warping, siphoned from one of the Sorcerer Supreme’s less secure artifacts. It wasn't a wand or a gem; it was a knot of possibility, and it itched to be used.
Her friends were in. Well, not her friends, really. Peter’s. But that was close enough.
She didn’t pick the lock on their Brooklyn apartment door. That was for amateurs. She came in through the kitchen window, fourteen stories up, silent as a shadow, the city’s neon glow painting her blonde hair in streaks of pink and blue. The living room was exactly as she’d imagined: a beautiful disaster. A worn leather couch held the permanent indent of two bodies. Comic art fought for wall space with cheap IKEA frames. The air smelled of citrus cleaner, old pizza, and the familiar, comforting scent of Peter’s stupid shampoo.
Music filtered in from a back room—the raw guitar of a Pixies track. Felicia followed it, her boots soundless on the hardwood.
Mary Jane stood at the kitchen island, chopping vegetables with a surgeon’s focus. She wore a faded Spider-Man t-shirt, the chest emblem stretched and cracked, and jeans ripped at the knees from genuine wear, not design. Her red hair was a messy bun held by a pencil.
She sensed Felicia before she saw her. A model’s awareness, an actress’s radar. Her knife stilled.
“Jesus, Felicia.” MJ didn’t jump. She let out a slow breath, her shoulders relaxing from a tension Felicia hadn’t even noticed. “The doorbell’s a concept. It’s a good concept.” She set the knife down, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes, sharp and green, scanned Felicia from head to toe. “What’s wrong? Is it Peter?”
“Always about Peter,” Felicia sighed, slinking further into the kitchen. She leaned against the fridge, smiling. It was a real smile, for a second. She liked MJ. Liked her steel. “No web-related emergencies. I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d pop in.”
“Through a wall, apparently.” MJ’s lips quirked. She was cautious, but not afraid. Welcoming, even, in her own guarded way. She opened the fridge, pulled out two seltzers, and tossed one to Felicia. The can was cold and beaded with moisture. “He’s out. Patrol. Should be back soon, smelling like alleyway and regret.”
“I can wait.” Felicia cracked the can open. The fizz was loud in the quiet kitchen. The power in the pouch warmed, a insistent pulse. Do it, it seemed to whisper. See what happens.
“You’re up to something.” MJ took a sip, her eyes narrowing over the rim of the can. “You’ve got that look. The ‘I just robbed a museum and got away with the curator’s dignity’ look.”
“It’s my resting face.” Felicia pushed off the fridge, wandering into the living room. Her fingers traced the spine of a well-worn book on the coffee table, next to a sprawl of LEGO pieces and a forgotten coffee mug. The domesticity of it was suddenly, unbearably dull. This was why she’d left. This cozy, safe stagnation. She needed to stir the pot. She needed to see the chaos unfold.
“It’s a terrible resting face.” MJ followed, leaning in the doorway. “Spill. Or I’m calling Steve Rogers to come talk to you about civic duty.”
Felicia laughed, a genuine, sparkling sound. She turned, the pouch now cool in her hand where she’d subtly withdrawn it. It wasn’t much to look at—a worn leather cord tied around a lump of rough, glassy material that seemed to swallow the light.
“I found a thing,” Felicia said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “A magical thing. From a very grumpy, very cloaky mutual acquaintance.”
MJ’s playfulness vanished. She straightened. “Strange’s stuff? Felicia, are you insane? Put it back. Now.”
“But I haven’t even shown you what it does.” Felicia’s grin turned wicked. The thrill was back, fizzing in her veins like the seltzer. This was better than any jewel. This was playing god. “It doesn’t hurt. It just… alters. Adds a little flavor.”
“No.” MJ’s voice was firm. She took a step forward, a protector’s move. “Whatever prank you’re planning, forget it. That’s not a toy.”
“Life’s a toy, Red.” Felicia’s fingers closed around the artifact.