“Right...” he scratched his head. “So, ninjas to dust?”

“The Hand are demon-worshipping martial artists from the Orient. If defeated in combat, they can choose to die instead of be captured. The magic of their Patrons allows them to reform new bodies in service to their clans, and be sent back out to fight. They lose a bit of their soul when they do it, but it means they can die somewhere between six and twelve times for the clan.”

“So, demon zombie ninjas?” he asked in disbelief.

“Technically they aren’t undead, although they are called ‘ghost warriors’ if they’ve taken the trip once, as I understand it.” I smiled slightly, as I’d tapped all of the dead men with Function. Vivus was going to make sure they stayed dead, demon-worshippers that they were, which their bosses were probably going to find annoying. Training up a death-warrior like that wasn’t cheap nor quick, which was why they preferred re-using the ones they had. “But sure, demon zombie ninjas.”

“Sounds so much cooler than ‘the Hand’,” he pointed out.

“Kinda got that Saturday morning cartoon feeling to it...” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but ‘Fear the Hand’, ‘Here comes the Hand’, ‘Prithee the smackdown from The Hand’, ‘The Hand comes for your Pickles’...” he shrugged. “Loses something in the translation.”

“It does. Like it took a lesson in blandness from Generic-ville,” I agreed. “You coming or not?”

“Uh, how are you going to get there?”

“Kind of power-gliding by using Repulse to manipulate air pressure.”

“You can repel the air?!” he exclaimed enviously. “I can only stick to stuff without throwing off sparks!”

“The world is cruel,” I replied airily, getting ready to get some height. “You coming or not?”

“I, yes, no, dammit! Okay, I’m coming!” He clenched his fists. “But, uh, can I borrow your phone?”

I tossed it to him, and leapt into the sky. “Bring it back to me!”

---

“Crap!” He hit a key, it lit up, and he hurriedly punched in a phone number as he watched Dynamo glide smoothly off, faint sparks dancing over her and making it not that hard to spot her if you knew where to look.

“Hi, Aunt May? I know I’m out a little late, but I met a superhero girl and we’re kind of going uptown to see the city at night here. Yes, yes, another one... I’ll be careful, and she’s really cool. I won’t stay out too late, no, no, I understand. I’ll call if anything happens, I promise...”

Mumbling to himself, he stuck the phone to his chest so he would have two hands, and jumped for some extra height as he flashed out a webline, and took off after Dynamo.

Still, he had to admit that Aunt May and Uncle Been had been a lot more understanding of him breaking curfew after SHIELD had a talk with them...

------

I glanced back and saw Spidey taking a wide arc around one of the office buildings here, catching up to me without too much problem, mostly because I wasn’t trying for speed, and he was.

The office building occupied by Alderstein and Associates was just ahead. They’d bought the building and named it after themselves, one of the most prominent private accounting firms in the city.

He did his acrobatic swings, loops, and dives, and I glided smoothly along, lifted up by air pressure as I Repulsed away above me, and powered forward by Repulsing away from my face. I had to gain some altitude to rise up to the roof, while Spidey arced around it, webbed a line to the edge, and snapped himself up ten floors in a flying acrobatic arc, clearing the edge almost at the same time I did, and landing with a smooth acrobatic roll to disperse momentum and land as quietly as possible.

“Hey, why’d you take such a roundabout way here?” he asked in a whisper, as we headed for the roof access.

“They were watching the apartment back there, which meant they saw us. We left in the wrong direction to come here, and they couldn’t follow us, so they don’t know we are here, in addition to the fact it looks like we split up.”

“Oh.” He looked back the way we’d come. “That was pretty smart.”

“Head games.” I accepted my phone back from him, stowing it in my Vest.

“Shouldn’t you be in a bright colorful outfit?” he pointed out hesitantly.

“Technically, all you need is the mask, right? Unless you want to be identified at a distance... or look like an idiot. Some people have the fashion sense of a sidewalk.”

“Uh, that’s true. The Beetle’s armor is the clunkiest thing, and green and purple of all things...”

“Your Doc Ock should be wearing a helmet. His haircut looks like he’s wearing a mop.”

“You know the Shocker is a burglar? He looks like he’s wearing a red and gold quilt!” he guffawed quietly. “Oh, do you know how to pick a lock?”

“Yes, but...” I stuck a fingernail into the lock, turned it to the right, Repulsed the pins to their proper heights, and finished turning it as my other hand kept a circuit going into the door alarm. He scooted inside underneath my arm hastily, and I stepped in and closed it. “Faster than breaking out the picks.”

“Wow, could I learn to do that?” he asked enviously as the door closed, and we were totally in.

“Depends on the operating radius of your wall-crawling. Does it extend past the point of contact a couple of inches?” I started down the stairs airily.

He paused before following me. “I, uh, don’t know?” he admitted.

“Well, then, neither do I.”

“Oh.” Something he’d have to figure out on his own.

---

The lighting was dim, but that was no problem for me, and Peter could just follow his spider-sense along to not trip on anything regardless.

“Hey, where’s his office?” Peter asked suddenly.

I flicked up a business card from Eustace’s briefcase. “Twenty-seventh floor.”

“It’s like you think ahead about this stuff.”

“How many detective shows have dumb detectives? Don’t mention the Pink Panther.”

He was going to say something, and stopped. “Aw, busted. What are we gonna be looking for?”

“First, Rout Iron Systems was the name of the company he was working on. It seems they produce several valve systems that Dr. Richards designed.”

“So, like, plumbing?” he asked.

“And motors and things. There was a problem.”

“With the money?”

“It seems the royalty checks had been going down, claiming the valve designs were being used by fewer companies. However, shipping orders had increased twenty percent, and Whirlpool just signed a new contract with them.”

“So they’re cheating him out of his money...” Peter murmured, and held up a hand. “I think there’s a camera ahead.”

“It can’t see me. Skitter.” I waved at the ceiling, continuing forward.

There was indeed a camera mounted up in the corner, but it wasn’t angled to really cover the ceiling, and the shadows were more than enough for Peter to zip around it and not be noticed by whatever bored guard was on the other end.

He caught up to me on the far side. “That’s an awful convenient power,” he murmured in envy.

“My name, face, image, likeness, and personal information cannot be committed to any medium without my express approval.” I leaned towards him slightly. “Alchemy has perks!” I hint-hinted.

“That’s why you’re almost never in the paper!” he blurted out.

“Especially in an embarrassing manner. Either I agree to it, or it never makes print!” I agreed cheerfully.

“Wow! I bet that makes the Daily Bugle so mad...” I could easily anticipate the next question. “So, could I get something like that?”

“Are you a practicing user of magic of any stripe?”

“Uh, no...”

“Then no. Getting immunity to all forms of non-living surveillance is different, but that just means they’ll use artist renditions instead of photos. Great for sneaking around, however.”

“Magic is really real?” he blurted out excitedly. “Lord of the Rings and everything?”

“Yep. The Sorcerer Supreme of the whole planet lives over in Greenwich Village.” I poked him. “That’s a weird question to ask. Aren’t your powers magical?”

“What? They are?” He was astounded.

“They aren’t?” I asked in turn.

“Uh, I got bit by a radioactive spider and gained my powers.” My Mask was great, it totally conveyed a raised eyebrow and total disbelief. “It’s true! My blood is still radioactive!”

“So, you think the strength, speed, agility, and other effects of your powers are being powered by radioactive decay?”

His mouth worked under his mask for a moment. “Maybe?” he asked hesitantly.

“Or, maybe not, and you’re getting all the energy for your super-strength and speed from somewhere else that doesn’t involve you glowing in the dark and saturating everyone around you with radiation?”

His jaw worked for a moment again. “Oh, twenty-seventh floor!” he redirected brilliantly.

Finger in the door, hand to the door alarm, I opened it up quickly, stepping out into the carpeted hallway. Peter paused a moment, swung up for the ceiling at a key time, and the door closed behind us before I let go.

“Now we just have to find his office,” he groused.

“May the gods bless whoever invited bright shiny nameplates?” I shot back, skating down the corridor smoothly.

He skittered after me until he was out of the cameras, then hoofed it after me. “That’s cheating! It looks way too cool! How are you skating on a carpet, of all things?”

“Same way I was sitting above the cement, quasimagnetism. I call it sparkfoot. Kind of based on martial art lightfoot techniques, particularly the Wave-Skating Step, if you’ve heard of that.”

“Uhhh, no?” I was looking left and he was looking right as we sped around the office, bypassing a lot of names that were probably Jewish or English in origin. Old money names. “Wow, there’s some old family names here,” Peter murmured, seeing some of them. “They sent their kids to be tax lawyers?”

“And look after the family money, possibly?”

“Got him!” he said, and I came to an instant halt, as did he. E. Coombs was on the door. “Only two from a corner office?” he asked, wondering about status.

“He’s on the inside track, one of the analysts. Offices with a view are for those who deal with clients.” Finger, turn until it stops, Repulse, complete the turn. The door clicked open.

“That’s a VERY nice trick,” he observed longingly.

“If the area of your stickiness is a couple inches, you can probably do the same yourself,” I reminded him as we stepped inside. I pulled out a flashlight, extruded the Eternal Light, and we had plenty of light without turning on the switch and possibly triggering an alarm.

“What are we looking for?” he asked, looking around at the admittedly comfortable chair, decent desk, and filing cabinets.

“Whatever he was working on recently. Hopefully we’ll be interrupted.”

“Hopefully?” he asked, startled.

“By people who actually know what they want to conceal, and where it all is.” I smiled winningly.

“Ohhhh, and we just take it from them.” He paused thoughtfully. “How long do you think it will take them to get here?”

I’d left the door open, and in the quiet of the building, the ding of the elevator opening was clearly audible.

I flicked off the light, smiling. “Can you drive?”

“No...?” he winced, as we stepped across the hall, into Mr. W. Goldberg’s office there. With a window, and a view, and better chairs and desk.

“I doubt they’re going to shred the stuff here, so they’ll haul it away and either dispose of it or keep it in an off-site storage area.”

“Then we just remove it from their hands and bring it off to somewhere we can go through it leisurely!” he caught on.

“Without being seen, ideally.”

“So, if they aren’t going to burn them, and they aren’t going to shred them here, they must be loading them into a truck, right?” he pointed out.

“Which means the loading dock is open!” I gave him a thumbs-up. “Let’s eavesdrop a little here, and then head on down to take possession after they’ve done all the work for us.”