Peter tried to fade into the background of the Hellfire Gala as celebrities and bigshots mingled
with powerful and prominent mutants and heroes. The grand hall of Krakoa glittered with
extravagance, mutant-grown chandeliers casting prismatic light across the gathering of Earth's
most extraordinary individuals. Peter had worn a simple yet expensive tux rental and his mask
to the gala that night, the combination making him feel both overdressed and underdressed
simultaneously. The fabric itched at his neck, reminding him with every movement that he
didn't belong here.
He did his best to give small greetings here and there to Magneto, Wolverine, and Professor X,
each interaction briefer than the last. "Evening, Professor. Nice... uh, flower arrangements," he'd
mumbled to Xavier before quickly pivoting away. With the Avengers, it wasn't much better.
Captain America's firm handshake, Black Panther's dignified nod, and Black Widow's knowing
smirk each received nothing more than a quick "Hey there" before Peter dipped away quickly to
some corner with a soda of all things, already confusing the many heroes who liked and wanted
to speak to him.
"Parker, no champagne?" Tony Stark had called out, raising his own crystal flute. "They've got
the good stuff. Perks of being an economic superpower." Peter had just shrugged, lifting his
plastic cup of fizzing cola in a mock toast before retreating further into the shadows cast by
Krakoa's living architecture.
He didn't trust himself with the expensive champagne or alcohol with how his life was going.
One drink might lead to two, then three, and before he knew it, he'd be spilling his guts about
eviction notices and missed job opportunities to anyone near herself. The soda was safer—
sweet, familiar, and incapable of loosening his tongue enough to embarrass himself in front of
Earth's mightiest heroes and most powerful mutants.
The truth was he hadn't wanted to come to Krakoa, hadn't wanted to attend the Hellfire Gala.
When he saw the invite at his door to RSVP by call or email, his actual first question on his mind
was how they knew it was him. The mask wasn't just for show—secret identity was kind of his
whole thing, having to remember that some mutants actually knew who he was under the
mask. The second was to politely refuse, only for another invite to be sent, one he had given to
Miles. "You sure about this?" Miles had asked, eyeing the embossed card with its Krakoan
symbols. "It's pretty swanky." Peter had insisted, claiming he was too busy, though they both
knew better.
Then a third had shown up and this time he replied by email saying Spider-Man was working on
an important Green Goblin case, only to have his mail bombarded with messages from the
various young X-Men he had once taught at Xavier's. His phone rang every 10 minutes from
Cyclops, Wolverine, and others saying that a lot of people really wanted Spider-Man to come.
"Look, Pete," Logan had growled during one call, "just show up, have a drink, shake some hands.
Even I'm wearing a monkey suit for this thing." He had sighed and finally accepted, if only to
stop the barrage of communication.
He didn't have anything against mutants; he had saved, fought alongside, and been friends with
many over the years. But right now, Peter was just feeling low despite all the one-liners and
jokes he threw at villains and crooks on a daily basis. His bank account was nearly empty, his
apartment was falling apart, and the Daily Bugle was cutting freelance budgets. Again. Even his
web fluid was running low, and the chemicals weren't cheap. The gleaming opulence of the Gala
only highlighted everything he wasn't—wealthy, powerful, part of something bigger than
himself.
"Has anyone seen Spider-Man?" he heard Storm ask nearby, her regal voice carrying over the
ambient chatter. "I wanted to thank him personally for his help with those students last month."
Peter pressed himself further into the shadows, employing every bit of stealth his spider-powers
granted him. He'd stick to the ceiling if he thought he could get away with it in formal wear.
He hid from the crowds, even as his name came up in conversation and some heroes and
celebrities looked around to see where he was. Using his powers subtly, he stuck to one of
Krakoa's large trees, the living bark seeming to welcome him as he perched halfway up its trunk,
partially concealed by flowering vines. From this vantage point, he sipped his soda and watched
the glittering assembly below, waiting for when attention was fully on the party to slip away to
the portals to go home. As Emma Frost took the center stage area, tapping a crystalline glass for
attention, Peter calculated his escape route. Three minutes of whatever announcement was
coming, then he'd make a break for it. Krakoa was beautiful and all, but tonight, Peter Parker
just wanted the comfort of his own shabby apartment ceiling.
Emma Frost stood at the center of the hall, a vision in shimmering white and blue crystalline
accents that caught every light in the room. Her icy blue lips curved into a confident smile as she
raised her glass, the fabric of her outfit clinging to her curves like it had been painted on.
"Welcome, distinguished guests, to another year of celebration and progress for mutantkind,"
she announced, her voice commanding instant attention. "Tonight, we toast not only to our
achievements but to the continued cooperation between humans, mutants, and all who call
Earth home." A chorus of crystal glasses clinked throughout the hall, followed by approving
murmurs from the crowd.
From his perch in the tree, Peter had an unobstructed view of the gathering below. His gaze
drifted across the sea of faces until it locked onto a sight that made his chest tighten—Mary
Jane Watson, radiant in an emerald gown that complemented her fiery red hair, her arm linked
with Paul's. They stood near the front of the crowd, Paul in a tailored navy suit that fit his frame
perfectly, his hand resting comfortably on the small of MJ's back. She laughed at something he
whispered in her ear, tilting her head back in that familiar way that Peter once knew so well.
"To new alliances and stronger bonds," Emma continued, but Peter barely registered her words
now. His focus remained fixed on MJ and Paul, watching as they raised their glasses in unison.
He hadn't wanted to admit it to himself, but this—seeing her with someone else—was the real
reason he'd avoided the gala. The invitation had arrived just days after he'd bumped into them
at a coffee shop in Manhattan, MJ trying to get them to get along again, using that awkward
politeness reserved for ex-partners.
His mind drifted to Gwen, as it often did in moments of loneliness. She would have understood
all of this—the dual identity, the constant sacrifices, the perpetual struggle to balance being
Spider-Man with being Peter Parker. She had accepted all of him, mask and all. "At least you
would've been on my arm tonight," he whispered to a memory, then immediately felt guilty for
the thought. MJ had her reasons for moving on, and he couldn't blame her. Their relationship
had been a roller coaster of missed dates, unexplained absences, and constant danger. Still,
seeing her smile at someone else cut deeper than any supervillain ever could.
Returning his attention to the party, Peter scanned the room for an escape route. Jean Grey
stood near the east entrance in a stunning gold dress that seemed to flow like liquid metal
around her statuesque frame. Hope Summers, in a bold red ensemble that marked her as
Cyclops' daughter as clearly as her powers did, conversed animatedly with Forge by the
refreshment table. Across the room, Psylocke commanded attention in a form-fitting purple
gown with strategic cutouts that showcased her athletic physique, her psychic butterfly effect
subtly glimmering around her temples as she laughed at something Nightcrawler said.
"Great," Peter sighed, "a telepath at every exit." He hadn't considered that particular
complication in his escape plan. The last thing he needed was one of them picking up on the
cloud of misery hanging over his thoughts. Jean, especially, had always been perceptive even
without actively reading minds. One look from her and she'd know exactly why he was hiding in
a tree instead of mingling.
He glanced toward Professor Xavier, who stood in deep conversation with Magneto and Storm.
The Cerebro helmet gleamed on Xavier's head, its modified gala design somehow both elegant
and intimidating. Peter knew that with that amplification device, Xavier could potentially read
every mind on Krakoa without even trying. "Time to go before the world's most powerful mind
reader gets a front-row seat to the Peter Parker pity party," he decided, calculating the quickest
path to the teleportation gates that would take him back to New York, back to the comforting
anonymity of his mask and the city's rooftops where, at least for a few hours, he could outrun
these feelings by swinging between skyscrapers under the cover of night.
Just as Peter thought to perhaps try exiting through Psylocke's covered door, hoping she'd be
too busy mingling to notice him slipping away, he heard the confident voice of Emma Frost
calling from below. "Spider-Man, I believe hiding in trees is considered poor etiquette, even by
arachnid standards." Her crisp, aristocratic tone cut through the ambient noise of the gala with
laser precision.
Peter looked down to see the White Queen standing at the base of the tree, one hand on her
hip, head tilted upward with an expression that managed to be both amused and impatient. She
wore what appeared to be living crystal fashioned into the most revealing formal wear he'd ever
seen, the blue-white material catching the light with every subtle movement. He sighed,
knowing his escape plan had been foiled. With a resigned wave, he called down, "Oh, hey there,
Ms. Frost! Just getting a better view of the... uh... botanical wonders of Krakoa."
Tugging his mask down over his mouth and nose in a habitual gesture of security, Peter
descended the tree with ease, his rented tuxedo somehow still impeccable despite his arboreal
retreat. His feet touched the ground with the silent grace that came naturally to him, standing
now before the formidable telepath. "Is there a problem?" he asked, his tone hopeful. "Super
villain? Alien invasion? Reality-altering cosmic entity? I'm kind of in the market for a worldsaving distraction right about now."
Emma's icy blue lips curved into a knowing smile as she folded her arms across her chest, the
movement accentuating her already prominent cleavage. "Nothing so dramatic, I'm afraid. I
simply noticed that one of our guests of honor has been conspicuously absent from the
festivities. The young mutants have been asking about you all evening." Her crystal-blue eyes
narrowed slightly. "You've been avoiding everyone rather skillfully for someone in such a
distinctive mask."
Peter shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in an exaggerated motion beneath the rental
tuxedo. "Not really one for parties, that's all. Especially ones where I'm underdressed compared
to, well, literally everyone." He gestured broadly at the gathering of heroes and mutants in their
spectacular attire. "But hey, the food's great. Please pass my compliments to whoever grew
those little mushroom canapés. Tell them Spider-Man says they're the real heroes tonight."
"I'm not buying it," Emma replied, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone as she took a step
closer to him. The scent of her expensive perfume—something cool and clean with notes of
diamond dust and ice—enveloped him. "You've faced down genocidal maniacs with quips and
jokes. A formal gathering hardly seems like something that would send you scurrying up
foliage."
The White Queen's eyes narrowed as she studied him, a slight smile playing at the corners of
her blue lips. "You know, I've spent decades observing men at events like these. Most can barely
manage eye contact with me for more than three seconds before their gaze inevitably drops to
my chest. It's tediously predictable." She ran a hand along the crystalline edge of her neckline,
the movement deliberately drawing attention to her décolletage.
Peter's eyes remained firmly fixed on Emma's face, his spider-sense tingling faintly—not from
danger, but from the awareness that a powerful telepath was analyzing his every reaction. He
maintained perfect eye contact through the mask, his mind carefully blank of any thoughts
about her appearance. Even when she adjusted her outfit, his gaze didn't waver, and his mind
didn't conjure the images that would typically flood a man's thoughts when confronted with
Emma Frost's legendary beauty up close.
Emma's smile softened into something more genuine as she tilted her head slightly. "And that,"
she said quietly, "is how I know something is wrong. Not even a flicker of distraction." She
reached out and lightly touched his arm, her fingers cool against the fabric of his sleeve.
"What's troubling you, Parker? And don't bother denying it—I don't need telepathy to read
misery when it's written so clearly on what little I can see of your face."
Peter shifted uncomfortably under Emma's penetrating gaze, clearing his throat. "Actually, I'm in
the middle of a pretty complex Green Goblin investigation. Got some leads that need following
up tonight, which is why I was planning my exit strategy." He tapped his temple through the
mask. "Crime never sleeps, especially the kind with gliders and pumpkin bombs."
"Strange," Emma replied coolly, her crystalline outfit catching the light as she folded her arms.
"Last I checked, Norman Osborn was cured of his Goblin persona quite thoroughly. And there
haven't been any reports of a new villain taking up the mantle." Her icy blue lips curved into a
knowing smile. "So that's a lie. Rather transparent for someone who values opacity so much."
Peter rubbed his head through his mask, shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. The White Queen
had cornered him more effectively than any supervillain could with just a few well-placed
words. He remained silent, weighing his options, knowing that any further attempts at
deception would be futile against someone like Emma Frost.
"If you don't want to discuss that particular fabrication," Emma continued, her voice dropping
to a more intimate volume, "perhaps you could tell me about the gentleman accompanying Ms.
Watson this evening?" She gestured delicately with one crystal-adorned hand, directing Peter's
attention across the room. "The one who seems to have captured her attention so completely."
Peter's gaze followed Emma's gesture, landing on Mary Jane and Paul as they conversed
animatedly with Reed and Susan Richards. MJ looked radiant in her emerald gown, laughing at
something Reed had said while Paul's hand rested comfortably on the small of her back. The
Richards couple looked politely curious, clearly trying to place who this man was and why he
was with the woman they knew had once been Spider-Man's partner.
A deep pit of sadness welled up inside Peter, the sight of MJ looking so happy with someone
else twisting like a knife in his chest. He turned away, preparing some dismissive quip to change
the subject, but before he could speak, he felt cool fingers pressing gently against his temple
through the mask.
"Let me see," Emma whispered, her eyes glowing faintly with psychic energy. Before Peter could
protest or raise his mental defenses, she was inside his mind, rifling through memories with the
precision of a master locksmith. In less than a heartbeat, she witnessed it all—Uncle Ben
bleeding out on the sidewalk, Gwen Stacy's neck snapping as his web caught her too late, the
parade of villains that had haunted his life for years. She saw MJ trapped in another dimension,
Peter fighting through Avengers to reach Osborn for the technology to save her, the heartbreak
of finding her with Paul and those two children—Owen and Romy—who later proved to be
magical constructs. Most painful of all, Emma witnessed MJ's choice to stay with Paul upon
their return, the gentle rejection that had shattered Peter more thoroughly than any physical
blow ever could.
The psychic intrusion lasted only a second in real time. When Emma withdrew from his mind,
her icy composure had cracked slightly, her blue lips parted in surprise. She blinked rapidly,
clearly processing the depth of tragedy and heartbreak she'd just experienced through his
memories. "Parker, I—" she began, her normally confident voice faltering as she reached for
words of apology.
"That wasn't polite," Peter said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual wit and warmth. He stepped
back from her touch, mask hiding the pain that would surely be visible on his face. Without
another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Emma standing alone, her hand still halfraised where it had touched his temple. As he moved through the crowd toward the nearest
exit, he caught a glimpse of Emma's expression hardening as she looked across the room at
Paul, her eyes narrowing with the kind of calculating disdain usually reserved for insects she was
considering whether to crush beneath her heel.