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“This place is like totally retro,” your friend said as she pushed the door inward and a little bell jingled above. The tiny shop was stacked with radios, large, clunky televisions, remotes, and dangling video game controllers. “I can’t believe my brother wants a PlayStation One for his birthday,” she continued while perusing the shelves of electronics. “Other kids want the newest console, but he’s really into the older stuff.”
“Right,” you replied noncommittally with a small smile. The store was retro. It prided itself on having older games, systems, and analog radios. But, they also had refurbished technology behind the counter, so it wasn’t all retro.
“He’s like you with your comic books,” she teased, “everyone else reads comics on their phones.”
You laughed. “Define ‘everyone else’.”
You trailed down a cramped aisle where several televisions were plugged in, playing either VHS or DVDs with the sound muted, and half-listened to your friend talking to the person behind the counter. One of the old television’s screens with the VHS built into the front flickered. The video scrambled into static in a flash of red and blue.
Out of instinct, and fear that the television might catch fire in the cluttered store, you reached out and pressed the small circular ‘OFF’ button. The static jumped from the television screen with a low, vibrating hum and wrapped around your wrist. Your scream caught inside your throat.
You slowly opened your clenched eyes to find yourself standing in a bodega. Your hand was still extended toward the refrigerator filled with bottled sodas and water. Okay, what the hell just happened, you thought with varying degrees of alarm and concern. Did you black out? Was this a dream? Were you electrocuted and now in a coma? You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and shuffled toward the checkout.
The man behind the counter barely looked up from his newspaper as you dropped your water bottle onto the counter and slid two crumpled dollar bills toward him. He snapped his newspaper and the front page caught your eye.
It read: ‘SPIDER-MAN SAVES THE DAY?’ A picture of Spider-Man was on the cover.
“Is that some sort of joke newspaper?” You asked, squeezing the cold water bottle between your hands and hoping the damp condensation on the plastic might ground you.
“Hah!” He stroked his dark goatee. “Don’t say that too loud.” His dark gaze returned to the paper and someone coughed behind you.
You walked out of the bodega as if in a dream. But, the further you went, the more real everything became. You heard the horns of taxis and cars as they clustered through the streets and smelled the fumes of the subway through the grates in the sidewalk. You passed a man selling sliced fruit on the sidewalk, and a small group selling watches and counterfeit designer purses, and you ignored their calls of ‘come and see!’ and ‘you need a new purse!?’. You sent a slightly frantic, confused text to your friend that read ‘Where are you?!’. Did she get transported to Midtown as well?
A police siren screamed down the street. It was not an uncommon sound for New York and normally you wouldn’t bother to look up from your phone, but something compelled you, and your heart plummeted into your shoes.
“No fucking way,” you breathed as Spider-Man swung past the speeding cop cars and toward 7th Ave. No way. That wasn’t possible. That had to be a really, really good costume. Or maybe they were shooting a movie? But, movies filmed in New York usually came with signs and blocked-off streets, and you’d know if a new Spider-Man film was in the works. You blinked. And another Spider-Man, wearing a suit of black and red, swung past as the citizens of New York barely glanced up.
Okay, I’m either dead or in a coma or something, because this is too real to be a dream, you thought while trying to keep your breathing steady. Your feet acted on their own accord as you sped-walk to 7th.
Maybe chasing after police was a bad idea. Maybe. But, hindsight worked best in past tense and it was too late to turn back. Especially considering a Symbiote had pounced on top of you and flattened you into the sidewalk. You released the scream that had been building in your throat since you touched that static television.
The Symbiote was knocked off your body as Spider-Man kicked it with both feet and then rolled, agile as ever, before shooting the creature with his webbing and immobilizing it.
Spider-Man asked, “Are you okay?” He offered his hand to help you get up.
“I don’t know,” you replied numbly as you were pulled to your feet, “I’m not from here.” How could you explain this without sounding like a crazy person?
“Welcome to New York,” Spider-Man said, “I swear we have fewer goop monsters running around during this time of year.”
Your jaw dropped. You were talking to Spider-Man. “This can’t be real.” You covered your face with your hands, trembling, and your phone vibrated in your pocket. “This literally cannot be real.”
“Maybe you should wait for the EMTs…”
You dropped your hands. “Spider-Man isn’t real!”
“Hey.” His lenses widened. “I’m standing right here.”
“No, no, you don’t get it.” Your voice kicked up an octave as panic rushed through your veins. “In my world, where I’m from like you don’t exist. You’re a comic book character. Technically, you’re a part of an entire universe of comic book characters.”
Spider-Man stared at you. “Yeah, you should definitely get checked by the EMTs.”
You threw your hands up in frustration and huffed as you yanked your backpack from your shoulder and forcefully unzipped it. “See for yourself!” You dumped the contents of your backpack onto the sidewalk and the vibrant comic books split open as if wounded. Spider-Man didn’t say anything, but he did crouch down and tilt his head.
“These are pretty good,” he said, “did you make them?”
“No.” You crouched alongside him. “Look.” You pointed to the page where it listed the writers, artists, and publishers of the comic book issue. You waited in silence amidst police and ambulance sirens as Spider-Man scanned the page.
“Your name is Peter Parker,” you whispered. He sharply lifted his head.
“You’re going to need to start at the beginning…” he said.
“So, you’re not from this world?” Miles stood with his hands clasped behind his head. “How does that even work?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you get back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wait, did you do this on purpose?”
“Obviously not!”
You smacked your hand against your forehead. Your friend had replied to your text, saying she was at home, and no, nothing weird happened to her today. However, the retro-store that existed in your universe didn’t exist in this world. You’d need to find another exit if you wanted to leave. Although, as you sat in Peter’s garage, you couldn’t really see a reason as to why you’d leave. From what you could tell – this world was identical to your own with the bonus of Spider-Man being real. You were talking to your lifelong heroes like it was an ordinary, everyday occurrence!
“Do you know everything about us?” Miles asked, then said, “Wait, never mind, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”
“The more important question is how we get you back home,” Peter said while holding up your comic books.
You frowned. “What if I don’t want to go back?”
Miles and Peter shared a look.
“It feels like we’re messing with some kind of space-time continuum if you stay,” said Peter, “but I won’t force you to go.”
Your anxious mood brightened. “This won’t be so bad...living in a world where superheroes exist,” you said.
“And supervillains,” Miles said, “don’t forget about the supervillains.”
“However, one condition...” Peter held up one finger. “From this day forward, if we start to notice that we’re stuck in a time-loop, or people start forgetting my name, or objects start falling through physical matter, or any other impossible break in physics, then we have to send you back home.”
You bit your lip and stopped your initial reaction to say ‘no.’
“Okay.”
Peter smiled. “Great, now I do have a question about this issue…” He held up an open page. “Why am I a T-Rex?”