Chapter 8: A Plea for Help
The microwave clock burned 9:47 into Peter’s brain. Each minute was a geologic age. MJ had migrated from the kitchen to the couch, sitting with her knees primly together, sipping cold coffee from a chipped mug. She’d been chattering non-stop.
“...and like, my hair gets soooo tangled. It’s a total pain, you know? But guys seem to really like pulling it, so I guess it’s worth it.” She giggled, twirling a crimson strand around her finger. “Do you like pulling hair?”
Peter stood by the window, back to her, phone pressed to his ear. It had died ten minutes ago. The charger was in the bedroom, a million miles away. He’d been chanting Stephen’s number in his head, a useless mantra. “MJ, please. Just try to be quiet for a minute. Think. Your name is Mary Jane Watson. You’re an actress. You’re my wife.”
“Wife? That’s, like, a really serious word.” Her voice was a cocktail of vacant amusement. “Sounds boring. I’m more of a fun-girl. Last night was so fun. I wish I could remember more of it. My body remembers though.” She stretched, the NYU hoodie riding up to expose a strip of pale stomach. She glanced at him, hoping for a reaction.
He didn’t give her one. He was watching the clock. 9:52.
“You’re not very talkative,” she pouted. She set the mug down with a clatter and stood up, shuffling toward him. Her movements were loose, uncoordinated, like her joints were held together by silly putty. “Maybe you need to relax. You’re all tense.” Her hands landed on his shoulders from behind, kneading clumsily.
He stiffened, every muscle locking. “Don’t.”
“You’re soooo strong. Really wired.” Her fingers trailed down his arms, her breath warm against his back. “All this clothing is, like, in the way. We should take it off. Help you relax.” One hand slipped around his waist, fingers fumbling for the waistband of his sweatpants.
He caught her wrist, spinning around to face her. Her expression was one of benign, playful confusion, like a puppy being denied a treat. There was no malice in it. That was the worst part. No understanding that she was scraping open a wound that was still bleeding.
“Stop. It.” The words came out strangled. “You are not this. This is not you.”
Her lower lip jutted out in a parody of hurt. “You’re mean. The other guys weren’t mean. They let me help. They said I was really, really good at helping.” Her free hand rose to his chest again, patting it. “I just want to make you feel good. That’s my whole thing. It’s what I’m for.”
The clinical horror of that statement—It’s what I’m for—hit him like a physical blow. He let go of her wrist, stepping back until the window sill dug into his spine. “Go sit down. Just sit down and watch the clock.”
“The clock is boring.” But she obligingly flopped back onto the couch, lying on her side, head propped on her hand. She stared at him with lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. “I’ll just watch you, then. You’re prettier than a clock.”
9:58. The silence was thick, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the dull buzz of traffic far below. Peter’s mind raced down useless avenues. Biochemical triggers? Neurological suppression? It was magic. Pure, hateful magic. His field of expertise was worthless.
10:01. He watched her, searching for any flicker, any sign of the storm behind her eyes. There was nothing. Just a placid, welcoming blue-green sea with no depth.
10:04.
It started as a tingling in his feet, a pins-and-needles sensation that rushed up his calves like carbonation. He looked down, confused. Then his bones began to hum.
It wasn’t pain. It was a profound, unsettling reconfiguration. He heard a soft, wet pop from his own shoulders as they narrowed, sloping inward. His perspective shifted, the room growing slightly taller. The sweats and t-shirt, loose a moment ago, suddenly pulled tight across his chest, fabric straining against a new, soft weight. He gasped, and the sound was wrong—higher, airier.
“Whoa,” MJ breathed from the couch, sitting up. “Cool trick.”
Peter stumbled toward the warped mirror above the dresser. His reflection warped and straightened. The lean, angular face of Peter Parker was softening, cheeks filling out, jawline smoothing into something delicate. His hair darkened, lengthening in fast-motion waves, spilling over his now-slender shoulders. His hips flared, an aching pressure of bone and flesh remolding itself. The old sweats were now impossibly baggy at the waist, cinched tight over new curves.
He braced his hands—smaller, finer—on the dresser. The stranger in the mirror stared back, wide-eyed with Peter’s terror. It was the same woman from last night. The same body Felicia had crafted for him.
A cold, logical part of his mind noted the data: Transformation is independent of the bimbo trigger. The form is persistent for the hour. The bimbo state requires a specific visual stimulus.
The rest of him was screaming.
“You’re a girl now,” MJ said, standing and walking over, fascinated. She peered at their reflections side-by-side. “You’re really pretty. Like, super pretty. Better than me.” She said it without envy, just as a fact. “Does it feel weird?”
He tried to speak. “It’s… me. It’s still me, MJ.” His voice was undeniably feminine, but strained with his own panic.
“Sure, whatever.” She wasn’t listening. She reached out and poked his arm. “Soft. Do you, like, wanna do girl stuff? We could do makeup. I’m not good at it, but it’s fun to smear it around.”
He turned from the mirror, unable to look anymore. The weight on his chest was a constant, sickening reminder. The center of gravity was all wrong. He felt off-balance, trapped in a exquisitely tailored costume of flesh.
He looked at MJ. Her hour wasn’t up. She was still blank, still smiling her empty smile. And he was… this.
The clock read 10:14.
For the next forty-six minutes, they were a parody of a girls’ sleepover. A hollow-eyed bimbo and a traumatized man in a woman’s body, sitting in a trashed apartment that smelled of sex and regret. Peter folded himself into the armchair, pulling his knees to his chest, trying to make this new body as small as possible. MJ talked, and talked, and talked. About reality TV. About how cute puppies were. About how much she liked the taste of vodka.
Peter just watched the clock, counting seconds in his stolen voice, waiting for two prisons to break in sequence. The fresh condom wrapper on the floor by the couch glittered in the light from the flickering TV.
He knew, with a dread that settled deep into his new bones, that his own trigger was still out there. And the world was full of things he’d have to avoid seeing.
The next hour was a silent, mutual hell. Then, at 11:04 exactly, MJ stopped mid-sentence about glitter nail polish.
Her face went slack. The bubbly, vacant energy drained from her like water from a busted sink. Her eyes cleared, the sharp, painful intelligence rushing back into them, followed immediately by a wave of nauseous understanding. She looked at the room, at the vodka bottle, at the wrapper. She looked at him—at her—curled in the chair.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, her real voice raw and shattered. “Peter?”
He could only nod, his own horror reflected perfectly in her eyes now. The momentum of their nightmare wasn’t slowing. It was just changing direction, picking up speed, and they were both tied to the front of the train.