Deon stumbled into a pub, ready to set his plan into action. The late-night drunkards inside won’t remember what happens, probably won’t even register his appearance, but it will all be understood by the little moth that stalked him.

He was sweating and shaking by his own nerves, but, as he walked over and stiffly leaned against the bar, he hoped it would sell his performance.

“Hey,” he called over to the bartender, a balding, snaggle-toothed man, whom looked as nearly as intoxicated as his customers. “Gimmie whatever you’ve got.” The bartender slid over a full mug of the beer on tap, and, just as he was reaching for it, Deon shot out a web. Glass shattered against the wall, but didn’t splay out enough to cut anyone, and beer dripped down, coating the gray stone golden brown.

“Hey! You got a problem, buddy?” demanded the bartender. Deon jumped on his feet and stammered confused apologies, but, as he was talking, another web shot out from his palms and encompassed the bartender’s nose. The man screamed and swatted himself in the face, frantically missing and clawing at his cheeks.

A drunkard sitting a few stools down from Deon mumbled loudly, “Are you fuckin’ Spider-Man or somethin’?” before falling off of his stool in a mix of shock and drunken stupor. The rest of the men in the tavern jumped their attention towards Deon.

“I didn’t…” Deon began, but was ignored, as two men grabbed him from behind, while a third stepped in front and rolled up his sleeves, revealing a worn navy tattoo.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” he said angrily, “but you can’t pull that kind of shit around here.” He directed his head towards the bartender, who was now pulling the web off of his nose with a fork, then towards the man on the floor.

“No, you don’t understand, it’s not—uunh!” Deon was cut off with a swift uppercut to his stomach. As he cried out, a yellow liquid dripped from his upper canine teeth, landing on the wooden panels of the floor and grazing the retracting white sleeve of his offender. With a fervent hiss, the liquid burned a hole through each. Inebriated yells filled the room as the man with the navy tattoo panicked and stumbled and shoved away from the acid drip. Amidst the chaos, Deon managed to run out the back door of the tavern and down into an alleyway. He wasn’t followed, apart from the flutter of off-white wings he saw in the corner of his eye.

He scrunched up his face to make it red, and fell against the wall. “What’s wrong with me?” he whispered, drawing out the words. He shielded his hands with his face and made sniffling noises.

“Deon,” a voice called out to him. He moved his hands and looked up. His shadow was standing before him, now a girl of small frame in a bubblegum dress and matching short, pink hair.

“Go away,” he said, looking back to the ground and running a hand through his blonde locks.

“It’s okay,” she insisted, stepping towards him. “I saw what happened. You’re having difficulty controlling your powers, aren’t you?”

“Just leave me alone!” Deon screamed and backed further against the wall.

“We can help you with that. Loraine can help you.” He stayed quiet. “You could hurt someone, Deon. Is that what you want? You could kill someone.”

“No,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Anything but that.”

“Then come,” she beckoned, turning towards the direction of the complex.

Deon smirked to her back, then stood to follow.