But… It’s me! The real Spider-Man!

As I left the ParkerIndustries building, this time with my own, though false name and appearance, pass, I was in the best mood of my life. I was doubly satisfied, first with the amount of work I had done, and then with the magical ending of the day. And after all this I feel full of energy and ready for action again... the reason for all this is the abilities that formed a great tandem in my body. It is difficult to describe in words... it is as if I am living at the very peak of clarity and beauty that I never knew existed before. All my parts are in tune with my work. There is no greater pleasure in the world. Except to use this inexhaustible energy to bring my girlfriend ... or girlfriends to the top.

I still can't believe it actually happened. Well, I mean, I've had my sights set on rekindling my relationship not only with Mary Jane, but also with the other girls I loved in my past life from the beginning - as soon as I got used to the tenets of this crazy world - but Deadpool...

Heck, Wanda turned out to be the most insatiable - which isn't so surprising, given her mutation and prolonged abstinence - and the most passionate of all the women I ever had the pleasure of... hmm, having been with. After kissing her, I felt the need to check to see if all my teeth were still in place. Sex with her was like a struggle, a constant battle for leadership in bed... she was so unlike the passionate but compliant Mary Jane in that. Well, you can't have it all in one woman. Sounds like a pretty good argument for polygamy to me.

"What kind of dreamy expression is that, did something good happen?" I heard a familiar female voice.

"Up to this point, it's really been great," I said, not even trying to be friendly.

Not that I have a sincere dislike for Romanoff, but who would be happy to see the face of an agent assigned to spy on him in the morning? However, there was some good in her appearance-she listened to my request and did not leave my Harley in that alleyway. It was the one Natasha was leaning on at ease, waiting for me to get out. The girl herself was in a practical leather suit, just right for riding a motorcycle. On the seat to the side of the girl was a helmet, black, like the rest of her outfit, with red tongues of flame, a replica of which was waiting on the back rack.

"I hope you have a good reason for keeping me away from important things," I went on sullenly.

The crooked smirk that curved the woman's lips for a moment screamed, "I know what you've been up to." But the agent keeps all such innuendos to herself, and instead announces the purpose of his visit and the call that preceded it:

"Fury wants to see you."

"She can want anything," I reply with a touch of irritation in my voice, "especially at four in the morning."

Romanoff looked at me defiantly, the way she always looks at me, no matter what the situation.

"What about your you know where to find me?" - Shit, she's right, no one's pulling my tongue.

"Is it important?" I asked her, getting over my irritation.

"It's definitely important to you in particular," and then she tossed me a second helmet with the obvious suggestion of taking the passenger's seat. I immediately felt a new wave of irritation - it was my goddamn motorcycle, after all. Although I didn't know where we were going... damn it.

I didn't want to argue about it, so I lurched behind the girl... not the most unpleasant position after all, though I'd still prefer to drive myself.

With the engine roaring, Romanoff turned on the dipped beam and took off at cruising speed. And she didn't particularly care about the rules of the road or the possible attention of the cops, did she? Though the road is practically free at this time and the Russian spy's recklessness doesn't hurt anyone.

"Harlem?" I remark after about ten minutes.

And why would a black director of the Shield need to drag me to the blackest neighborhood in New York City at such a black hour? I'd like to ask, but I know from experience that it's very difficult to get through to a motorcycle driver at that speed. Besides, personal experience with Natasha's twin from my past suggested that no information could be squeezed out of her that way. Not as far as the director's intentions are concerned, that's for sure. It would take a little patience.

Finally, we stop in front of a building with a shouting sign that reads "Harlem's Paradise".

Romanoff hands the keys to the motorcycle to a pole-long girl in a parking attendant's uniform.

At the entrance is another woman valet on duty, unlike the previous one, not only tall but also massive. She looks at me askance, and this "askance" is so oblique that it cannot be more oblique, but in the end she lets us pass unobstructed, without asking anything. Not that it's part of the job of a lackey at the entrance to a club, but think about it. I'd come in here by myself. A white boy in a black neighborhood, hardly a schoolboy by the looks of it, wouldn't the burly lady try to hint to the boy that this wasn't the right place for him? That's just it. Maybe I should have chosen a more mature matrix for my temporary disguise...

I didn't like the club right away. Everything, from the music coming off the stage - you know, all those "dirty bastards" with their "Shimmy Shimmy Ya" and other "Kings of New York" - to the atmosphere and the customers. It's a rotten place. Nightclubs in principle are rarely full of decency of decency, but this one is different even compared to the others. Drugs, guns, prostitution, all these things flourish here. What else would you expect from a club in the city's most crime-ridden neighborhood? The word innocence isn't even used here, it's not even known. I shrugged my shoulders and sucked in the sticky, alcoholic air, smelling of tobacco, lust, and anger.

Despite the early or late hour, there were plenty of people. But there was not much excitement.

"Wait a couple of minutes," Natasha says as we walk to the table, "you can choose a drink, I'll order it for you."

And she winks at me like a mischievous uncle promising his nephew not to tell his parents about their little secret.

Romanoff's offer doesn't interest me, and I order coffee as black as she is from a thin-legged waitress who walks by. The girl gives me an indifferently dismissive look, but she knows her duties.

"That's right," Natasha scrubs, "you're too young for alcohol."

"Shut up, Romanoff. I drink what I like" since no alcohol will take me now because of my regeneration, it makes no sense to rape my palate in vain.

Halfway to the bottom of my cup, I noticed something strange about the visitors. Or rather, not in the people themselves, but in their attitudes toward us. In two minutes I have caught more slanting glances than in the whole time of my stay in this world. Not in a kindly way.

"Look," I turn to the agent, "why are all these... African-American women staring at us like that?"

Romanoff looks at me with mild surprise, as if I do not understand some recited truth.

"Just because you're a white boy in the blackest, most crime-ridden neighborhood in the city isn't enough for you?" She answers question after question.

"It's understandable, but... there's more to it than that. I can tell the difference between the look: "Aren't you lost, boy?" and "You don't belong here, get out while you still can.

Natasha is silent for a while, thoughtfully winds a straight curl around her finger, finally smiles crookedly and utters:

"Not bad, kid. I don't know where you learned it, but you're right. Something happened in this place last night. Something strange, and it just so happens that the culprits, like you and me, were a white couple."

"In that case, you should have warned me. I would have chosen a more appropriate appearance-unless this strange occurrence is why Fury has settled here, if she really is here."

"I wasn't thinking," Romanoff brushes me off, and, as if reading my thoughts, adds, "By the way, it's time for you to go."

The agent nods his head at the stairs leading to the upper floors, where there is another two-meter tall black woman, this time at least in a suit rather than a footman's uniform. She doesn't look like the local crime boss's six, more like Natasha's colleague. Romanoff herself is nestled behind me, which is to be expected-who else but her would stab me in the back if something went wrong?

Note:

I'm back... Don't know for how long...
Well, I was summoned to the enlistment office. They haven't mobilized me yet, but if this war doesn't end in the next few months, there will be next waves of mobilization, which I will most likely get into.
For now, I go back to writing and translating.

P.S. Peter's panties in the last chapter were a mistake due to a lack of understanding of the English language...