Chapter Text
Satoru Gojo knew he was perceptive. Keenly so. Even before the spider, his mother would always remark on how clever and observant her boy was. How he could tell who approached his room before they climbed the stairs. He knew when it would rain, even if the skies remained as bright as his eyes. He could feel in his gut when someone was lying to him.
Since the spider, sleep doesn't come easily to him anymore.There’s a part of him that will always be alert now - like a spool of silk running up his spine, pulled taut enough to keep him awake. Being awake in itself has its own problems too. His five senses, all essential to cognitive function, now seem permanently in overdrive. He’s used to dissecting his problems logically. Establishing variables, controlled environments, repeated testing. But he understood long ago that there was nothing logical about hearing people’s heartbeats. Tasting blood in the air. Perception in total clarity, and the exhaustion that comes from it. There was nothing logical about the profound changes to his genetic makeup upon being bitten by a spider, of all things.
He doesn't like to think about that night. The pinch of fangs breaking skin. Venom crawling through his veins, something inside of him changing. Becoming sharper, more precise. The ‘natural intuition’ common in his mother’s side of the family evolved into something that couldn't resist a hunt.
The only way he can sleep is by giving in.
It’s why he lets himself stalk a man down five streets.
He couldn't help it. A nondescript man, his face particularly unremarkable, trails a young woman. Is it not his duty to protect the weak, after all? She dodges each crack in the pavement, her coat slightly fuzzy with wear. A red scarf obscures her features. She keeps her head down.
Satoru watches from the rooftop of an apartment complex, his eyes narrowing with distrust. The streetlamps are low, casting bursts of golden light. Approximately 27 paces between each streetlight, for six intervals, until the two of them reach (relative) darkness. The city council has yet to fix three streetlights that flicker weakly. All in a row. 81 paces total, about 53 seconds in partial darkness for her, but less for the man following her. His gait is unsteady, but he gains speed.
Tonight is like any other, he tells himself. Web slinging from building to building, he sighs in relief as the cool air seeps through his suit. He situates himself on top of a building that will overlook them both, once they make it to the flickering trio of lights.
It doesn't matter that he feels more creature than human at times. This ritual - of stalking, and hunting, and eventual scraped knuckles and sore limbs are all a means to an end. Sleep. Continuous, uninterrupted sleep, away from the constant hum of danger. He wishes he could at least pretend to embody Suguru’s philosophy. ‘The strong protect the weak’. He wants to believe it. To swallow it whole, let it become a part of him the same way the venom did.
It doesn't matter. His motives are wholly self-interested. He doesn't care about this woman the way someone more noble with his ‘gifts’ would. He just wants to rest.
There we go. She reaches the flickering lights. Briefly looking up at them, her back to him, she hums in contemplation and continues on her way. 53 seconds. Less than that for the man following to catch up. He eyes the fire escape balconies before him, and the dingy alleyway at its base. A ladder attached to it extends from the third floor to the ground. Good enough. The thread at his spine pulls tighter. And sure enough, the man following has made his way into the dark. Now.
Momentum, he reminds himself, can be achieved quicker with gravitational energy. He vaults over the fire escape balcony, turning to attach a web to that same one. Swinging down to the level below, he lets go of the web. He lands in a crouch, and his hands grip the railing. He lets his lower body fall, then his hands, and outstretches his right hand. Bingo. The web latches onto the first rung of the ladder, and he pulls himself towards it with a clang of metal. Hands and ankles hooked around its sides, he slides down and lands softly in a perfect crouch, if he can say so himself. One gloved hand on the floor, knee bent, right leg extended parallel to him.
Sure enough, the man following her enters his line of vision out of the alleyway.
He looks much smaller here than he does from above, Satoru muses.
Despite this, his landing wasn’t as quiet as he thought. The man, if you can even call him that, turns towards the dark alleyway.
“The fuck? Who’s there?”
“I wouldn’t do whatever you’re planning, if I were you.” Satoru says, creeping closer towards the light.
He takes one look at Satoru’s suit and balks.
“I…I’m just walking home! I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”
“I’ve been watching you. Give up.”
He aims a clumsy punch towards Satoru, who only steps back with a laugh.
“Your technique is off,” Satoru says as he kicks the man’s legs out from underneath him. Sprawled on the floor, winded, he groans when Satoru presses his boot into his chest. “Your stance is too wide. But I guess you’ve grown accustomed to picking on those smaller than you, right?”
The man lets out a yell of barely contained-rage. Satoru feels that all-too-familiar pull before the man brandishes a flash of silver. He leaps back, laughing at this absurd new development.
Flipping the knife in his hand so that he holds it in a reverse grip, he lunges towards Satoru. His senses display the attack before the man does. Several slashing arcs from waist up. Too much effort.
He sidesteps the first and second attack, creating as much distance between them as possible. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the red-scarf-girl with her hands over her mouth. Seriously? Was she always there? Did his senses not pick up on her? No matter, the momentary distraction lands him a shallow cut across his arm. Oops.
At this point, he’s had enough. Sidestepping another swinging curve of the knife, he shoots a web into the darkness of the alley. The action is enough to confuse the man. At least long enough to prevent him from dodging a webbed-up garbage lid flying towards his face.
He howls in pain, clutching his nose and staggering to the floor once more. Satoru brushes his hands off and examines the shallow cut on his bicep. Perhaps Shoko could patch him up later.
“You cryin’?” he teases, leaning over to inspect the blubbering man.
The woman, still behind him, cautiously approaches. Her heart thrashes against her ribcage. Fear does funny things to people. Most stay frozen even when their mind screams, some run for the hills. He’s met very few who fight.
If she is afraid of him, she wouldn't be the first.
“Huh. Maybe overkill.” He mumbles to himself, inspecting his gash once more. He can feel her gaze on him.
“...you okay?” She only says.
He finally gets a good look at her. And the air is knocked from his chest.
He may as well be that snivelling mess on the floor, with the way he can't seem to find the air to breathe, let alone speak.
It’s her.
One of Shoko’s closest friends. Clever to the point where it’s just annoying. The only person on his, no, their course at university that he considers to be competition.
She crept into Shoko’s life years ago, his and Suguru’s too by association. He’s not entirely sure she’s sane. Her, with her glitter gel pens, the hairpins she leaves everywhere she goes, her incessant rants about the anthropic principle.
It irritates him, her belief in science being another medium of art. That humanity is simply the universe experiencing itself, that what’s factual and objectively true should be thrown out the window upon new possibilities beyond human comprehension. She’s a dreamer, the first to defend emergence theory, endlessly enthusiastic and hopeful.
It goes against everything he stands for; that everything deemed ‘impossible’ is merely a lump of tangible, factual components. Work from the ground up, and there will always be a solution. He’s a reductionist at heart, and he always will be.
Whenever she talks, whether it be in lectures, labs, and workshops together, he can’t help but correct her. She never backs down either. Classroom discussions evolve into heated debates between them, arguments which both of they pretend never existed when in the company of his friends.
He knows she feels the same about him, yet she keeps coming back. Returning into the familiar bubble of his, Suguru’s, and Shoko’s lives. He did an average after agonising weeks of waiting for her visits to dwindle. 3.4. 3.4 times a week he sees her, whether that be the library or classes together. Oftentimes, she’ll barge into his and Suguru’s apartment, arm in arm with Shoko, bags overflowing with ‘sweet treats’ and a promise to put on what might objectively be the worst films of the 21st century.
It’s perplexing. He’s practically military trained in his ability to annoy her, but knows little else about her.
He knows she doesn't know it’s him. Unequivocally. But even with his suit and mask, he still feels incredibly exposed. Like a kid caught with their hand in a candy jar.
It takes him a moment to realise she’s talking to him.
“Are you okay?” she repeats, her brows scrunched together with concern.
“Me? Oh yeah, fine. It’s nothing.”
“Right. Okay. Um… what do we do about that?” She says, gesturing to the garbage lid that’s covered in dried web fluid.
“Oh that? Well, normally I just…” He mumbles emphatically as he throws the lid like it’s a frisbee.
They both watch it sail through the air, over the building. It lands with a dramatic crash on the other side. He swears he hears a cat yowl in anger.
“...I didn't mean like that.” She says, laughing. He doesn't think he’s made her laugh before.
“Yeah well, it gets the job done.” He murmurs, and she hums in agreement. Silence stretches as they both stare at the man collapsed in a heap on the floor, audibly sobbing.
“Thanks for, you know, for doing what you did.” She says suddenly, twisting her hands together.
He looks at her briefly, and immediately turns his gaze somewhere else upon seeing her earnest expression. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she looked a little shy.
“It’s no problem,” He pauses, and the words spill out before he can take them back. “Let me walk you home-”
The sound of sirens three blocks down adds another weight to his shoulders.
The most unappreciative of his ‘gifts’, aside from him, of course, are the police. He’s tried to cooperate with them, he really has. He’ll even do their work for them - leaving criminals neatly tied up with his webs outside police stations. Unfortunately, they saw his act as a threat to their legitimacy. He’s confident there’s a running bet on who will be able to catch him.
He sees her notice the tension simmering off of him, and it seems it doesn't take long for her to put two and two together.
“It’s okay. Go, seriously, I’m pretty sure you’re their public enemy number one.” she says, cradling her arms to her chest.
The only thing he can do is nod. He webs up to the fire escape four stories above them, and staggers upon his landing. His chest feels oddly tight as he resumes scaling the building, nimble limbs easily gripping the smooth metal.
At the top of the building, ready to swing to the next, he pauses as he watches a police car cruise over to where she’s still standing. He crouches, peering over the ledge. Why hasn't she left?
His head already feels heavy, the dull ache almost certainly the early appearance of one of his migraines. He forces himself to focus.
A police officer exits the vehicle, and he saunters over to her, grabbing a notepad from his back pocket.
“I’ve had a call about a neighbourhood disturbance. Something about Spiderman?” He says excitedly .
“... Oh Officer, help! I don’t know what to do! Um…Spiderman, he, he attacked this man and ran off that way!” She exclaims, pointing in the opposite direction.
Satoru fights a smile. If he ever sees her again, when he’s like this, he’d like to tell her that she’s a phenomenally bad actress.
The police officer lowers his notepad. “What? I have 35 dollars on my precinct catching that little shit. You sure it was him?”
Satoru frowns. $35 seems a little low. Oddly enough, she continues her spiel.
She rapidly nods. “Yeah, yeah I’m sure. He was so… violent and horrible, even to me. I hope you catch him, I really do,” she continues “Him and this man, they got into a fight, it was so awful I don’t know why…”
The police officer completely ignores her, rushing back to his cruiser.
“Code purple! 4th Avenue!” He yells into his walkie-talkie.
He stops, looking at her, the man, and his knife.
“That yours?”
“... No?”
He nods wisely. “Well, I’ll take him and his weapon. You’ll need to come to my precinct this week to make a statement regarding his arrest,” He scribbles an illegible address on a receipt in his pocket and hands it to you. “The witness statement will be part of the evidence used to call for a public arrest of Spiderman. With your consent, I suppose.”
She nods, and Satoru notes the tense line of her shoulders.
“Of course Sir… goodnight.”
He nods at her, before locking handcuffs on the man and unceremoniously shoving him in the back of the car. After a moment, he grabs a clear bag and gingerly places the knife in there too. With his bare hands.
“Goodnight, ma’am. Thank you for bringing us closer to justice. Soon that vigilante’s hold on this city will come to an end.” He says, driving off.
He hears her sigh and resumes her walk home once more.
Huh. Three take-aways from tonight. First, his head is white-hot with pain, as usual. Second, the blood on his fingers is making him feel queasy. Third, that this was their first conversation where no one tried to kill the other. Sub-point of ‘Take-away Three’, that because of the adequately amicable conversation, she saved him, for no obvious reason.
She did it for him. It counts. Even if she doesn't know it. Turning to the back of the building, he releases another web and slings himself to the next building.
He doesn't notice her glance up at the roof he was just perched on.
Before he collapses into sleep at home, he makes one final pit stop. Swinging from building to building, he winces at the dull ache of the open gash on his arm that only seems to worsen with each pull of the silk. He reaches a familiar building, and webs himself next to a window he remembers by ritual.
Rapping on the glass gently, he pulls his mask off, one hand still clutching the web holding him in place.
Shoko opens the window, a cigarette in her mouth. She goes to light it, and yelps in surprise at seeing him dangling next to her window. The cigarette falls from her mouth and she dejectedly watches it fall. Her ire turns to him.
“You idiot. What did you do now?”