#naia leadley

[ifridiot]

Showdown

Kids need time to be kids, even ones who’ve gotten it in their head that they’re grown already and need to murder people.

Naia has a disagreement with Jean Grey about an idiot child who’s done nothing wrong ever. References to Honey, Don’t Feed It.

---

Staring down the woman with the red-hair, Naia finds the thing they hate the most about it is how they still, deep in their heart, under the anger and the nervous, quaking fear, want to geek out. That’s Jean Grey. One of the X-Men. Powerful and smart and strong and heroic, someone Naia had looked up to since they were young.

And she’s staring Naia down in the street, hands on her hips, mouth a thin, disapproving line. Jean Grey looks nothing like Naia’s mother -- Ma was swarthy, six-foot-five and lifted weights for a living, so really the telepathy is the only similarity here -- but the little kid in Naia sees a disapproving mommy in front of them and it takes a bit of control not to wilt.

“Spider-man, you can’t hope to control that boy,” Jean says, and her voice is the crack of a whip, all authority and control. Filled with that ‘I know best’ moms are so good at. “He’s dangerous. Willing to hurt innocent people, kill them.”

“He’s a child.”

Jean gives them a withering look, and Naia’s fists curl on reflex. “He’s old enough he should know control.”

“Yeah, well, pretty sure if his parents had stepped up…”

It’s a low blow, and Naia can feel the places where Jean is cracking into their mind, digging to try and find where they’ve hidden the kid, whip away fro a moment, like the thought burns her.

There’s a certain satisfaction in the way Jean’s face hardens. She wasn’t taking Naia seriously -- a lot of the big-time guys don’t, Spider-man being sort of local deal compared to the X-Men or the Avengers, but Miss Grey is definitely coming around to it now. The mask Naia wears doesn’t translate much emotion, but they project the antagonistic smug that hardened expression puts in them intentionally. Ma taught them to protect their mind and Ma taught them to fight, and in both, getting the opponent distracted by anger was a good tactic.

“He tried to murder my son,” Jean says, and her voice is low and dangerous. “He is not my child.”

“That’s a sort of philosophical, scientific debate that’s way above my paygrade, but I’m pretty sure like. Genetically speaking...”

Naia gets migraines frequently. The repeated head trauma hasn’t helped. What they feel then, a sudden sharp pain behind their eyes, isn’t a normal migraine; it’s focused and intent, it feels like a pain that’s going to grow outside of their skull and splatter their brain on the concrete. A sharp gasp leaves them, the pain staggering; they want to collapse, but they don’t. They focus on their mental noise, focus on the pain itself, anything to keep shielding where they sent the kid.

“Spider-man, I don’t want to hurt you,” Naia forces a laugh at that, but it’s weak, really a groan more than anything, “But you need to be reasonable here. He’s not a small time crook you can talk into changing his ways. He needs to be --”

“He needs to be treated like a fucking kid is what he needs,” Naia bites out. “Learn to make friends and listen to new ideas and be treated like something other than a tool or a dangerous weapon. He needs a family, or at least some decent friends. You want to put him in special-villain jail, I want to give him a chance to be normal.”

The pain ramps up, enough that Naia staggers. This isn’t a fight they stand a hope in hell of winning -- best case scenario, Jean leaves the mask on them when she runs off after the kid  and they recover before cops show up, and Naia doesn’t end up in jail. Best case scenario, Naia doesn’t end up with the X-Men as Spider-man’s newest enemies for deciding to side with a kid who had, admittedly, kicked their ass once before pretty much for the hell of it.

Life is never easy. Naia keeps learning that, if nothing else. Living is hard and messy and complicated, and being a ‘hero’ makes it harder. Daredevil was right about that at least; you don’t chose to be a hero, really; you do what you can, you do the thing you think is right, and the world takes notice and puts the label on you whether you want it or not. Just as easy, they can label you a villain, and the line between the two is sometimes worryingly thin.

Easy in this case would be giving up, or letting themself black out, or just telling Jean what she wants to know. Naia isn’t really jazzed about having to physically beating the shit out of a woman who really is some kind of hero -- some kind of shitty mother, evidently, but definitely a ‘does the right thing at all costs’ kind of hero too. It wouldn’t be like beating up Frank when he decides to murder a bunch of thugs who don’t deserve it, or fighting with Daredevil or Liv when they clash over the definition of ‘the right thing’. Those guys are all, in the grand scheme, small time. They’re Naia-sized.

Jean Grey is an international icon. Them arguing in an abandoned industrial park is a bad enough look for Spider-man. No one’s going to care if Spider-man’s definition of ‘right’ was different than Jean Grey’s, because Jean’s the one people are going to believe was right. After all, Spider-man’s defending a kid who was plotting murder.

Naia barely gets a step forward before they’re caught, held fast in a familiar telekinetic freeze.

“This is idiotic,” Stryfe says, stepping out from the shadows. Naia wonders how long the little jackass has been there, feels a twist of amusement and unhappiness touch their mind at the thought. The pain in Naia’s head breaks, gone but for an echo; better, Jean startles back a step, eyes wide, surprised. Stryfe cuts a pitiful figure, three fingers still splinted from Naia patching them up, weight all on his left leg when he comes to stand between Naia and Jean.

Still wearing the stupid cape. Naia wants to laugh, almost as much as they want to grab the kid and shake him; he’s supposed to be hiding, supposed to be staying out of sight and safe.

“One would think after two weeks searching and failing to find me, you’d take a hint that I’ve no interest in you at present,” Stryfe says, and Naia really wants to laugh, this kid is bold the way he’s got his arms crossed and feet planted, staring at the woman who should call herself his mother, talking to her like she’s simple. “But since you’ve come all this way, it would be rude to ask them to entertain you for me.”

Brat, Naia projects. Don’t fucking try, you know --

Jean goes flying backwards, hit with a wave of telekinetic force projected by the gangly kid standing protectively between her and Naia. Naia gasps, still held in Stryfe’s mental grip, unable to run to make sure she’s okay when she smashes hard into the side of the building. Judging the way she staggers to her feet, she must be, and then Stryfe is floating, cape tossed dramatically behind him. Naia can’t see his face, but they remember the way he looked that day in their safehouse, all the rage and hurt as he stood over them and told them killing them would be an honour they didn’t deserve.

“Come on then, mother. Let’s not waste time.”

[skittering-roach]

@ifridiot ‘s amazing Spider Verse OC Naia Leadley, for my half of the art trade. Their design was a lot of fun to play around with!  

[goneupthewall]

Naia, walking out of a room after a fight with some bad guy or another, fiddling with a knife they didn't previously have: you guys ready to move?

Frank: Christ, kid, did you stab him?

Naia: Hell no, I kicked him off the balcony

Matt: Attaboy!

Frank:... we're on the fifth floor. you still definitely killed him.

Matt and Naia: I have no control over gravity.

[ifridiot]

History

It's a quarter to six in the morning and i wrote this bc i hurt too much to sleep. Naia and Wade chilling and talking about bullshit after Nate got murderized by Bable. Warning for drug use, sex talk, and swears.

“The main difference between Nate and Daddy Scott,” Wade said, reclining into the sad, decrepit couch that took up the majority of his living room floor space, “other than, you know,” here he paused, making a soft sort of explosion sound and gesturing with both hands as if to vaguely encompass something large, “is that Nate fucks, and Cyke has literally never gotten his dick wet.”

Naia gives Wade a Look. Even with their eyes still covered by the mask, the look translates -- they can tell by the smile curling Wade’s mouth, the brightness of those wide white eyes. “I mean. Obviously if Cyclops is his dad, he’s fucked at least once.”

If you told Naia a year ago they’d be sitting in Deadpool’s apartment, with their mask rolled up and two of their hands working on packing a rather nice bowl with some expensive (or so Wade claimed) weed, talking about the sex life of a very famous X-Man in an effort to help Wade get over his ex’s (?) recent murder (suicide?), they would have rolled their eyes and asked for some of whatever you’d been smoking.

Now, as it’s occurring, it feels entirely natural. Fucking weird, no doubt, but natural the way it was natural to have mildly disgusting but ultimately light hearted conversations with a close friend.

“Yeah, they want you to think that,” Wade says, and pauses for Naia ask the obvious.

It takes them a second to realize that they’re supposed to actually supply the question. Wade often does the talking for both of them, but sometimes, usually when he’s feeling particularly lonely, he wants them to hold up their end. “Who wants me to think Cyclops has fucked, Wade?”

“Very important comma there, huh. Not that I’d say no to joining the ‘Has Fucked That Nerd’ club, but, you know, my loyalty is to Nate or whatever.”

Wade’s voice starts to go a little rough towards the end there, the way it does when he’s irritated or upset. Naia huffs and swats him across the shoulder.

“The writers, obviously,” Wade says, back on track. “They want you to think Cyke got busy a whole bunch, god bless their efforts.”

Naia makes a considering noise, feeling around for their lighter. When that’s not enough, they look at Wade again. “So who’s Cable’s real dad then?”

“Well biologically it’s still Scott, obviously, I mean that’s clear the second you see the eyes.”

Wade grins when Naia snorts at that. They may never have met Scott Summers in person, but they got the joke. You’d have to be dense not to, or at least hiding under a rock.

“But Scott’s just a sperm donor. Maddie took his spunk with telekinesis and made a baby that was so overpowered he had to be immediately nerfed with an alien virus that wanted to turn him into a fun sexy tentacle hentai monster. The metal kind.”

There’s the lighter, dear God, thank you. Naia grabs it, fumbles, catches it in another hand, and finally gets a hit, drawing deep before passing everything off to Wade. “Well,” they say on the exhale, “that’s disgusting. And definitely not what happened, except possibly in your fanfiction.”

“Hey, speaking of, did you subscribe to my AO3?”

“Dear god, no,” Naia lied, shuddering in a way that was only partially burlesque. “I do not need any more nightmare bullshit than what my own brain produces.”

Wade laughs at that, a genuine laugh, without the weird ache underneath it, and when he leans against Naia, pipe drawn up so he can take another hit, they let him shift so they can wrap both arms on that side around him, holding him.

He goes very still, just for a second, all the mirth gone out of him, and then he exhales, sagging against Naia as though all the weight and gravity of the world is on him, so he can’t possibly support himself. They press their hands against his side, his back, and hold him close.

Told a month ago that they’d be the person who’s shoulder Wade was most comfortable crying on, Naia would have laughed. Wade didn’t cry on shoulders, Wade laughed everything off, or else got mad and killed, maimed, or broke whatever had hurt him. He didn’t need a shoulder.

Now, as it’s occurring, Naia finds this to be as simple, as easy, as everything seems to be with Wade. He doesn’t sob, so much, more just sort of leaks snot and tears against their side. The coveralls need a wash anyway, and they’ve had worse on them than a little mucus.

“Thanks for puttin’ up with this shit,” Wade says when the wave of emotion finally subsides, so Naia almost chokes on their draw off the pipe. ‘Genuine’ is almost as foreign from Wade as ‘gratitude’, and that sounded like both.

“Course.”

“He’s gonna come back. Getting worked up is dumb. He’d laugh if he…”

“Nah. You call yourself a fic writer? Nate saw your nasty ass weeping bitter tears over his grave, he’d go full Ghost -- you know, the movie, Patrick Swayze, Hold Me Close, that bullshit -- with you.”

“I dig that you see me as Demi Moore.”

“With that voice?”

[ifridiot]

“I didn’t ask to be anyone’s hero,” Naia says, trying to take a full breath that doesn’t hitch. They’ve never cried in front of another vigilante, and they’re sure not going to start tonight.

“No one asks,” Daredevil says flatly, spine straightening. “Hero is a word other people use to describe you, not one you can use for yourself.”

“Yes, thank you, you fucking fortune cookie. Can we just fuckin’ call it a bad job and be done for the night?”

I need everyone to understand that Naia is like, an 18yo babby in the WIP i have going for my spiderverse shit, and they’re already done with Matt’s pious shit.

[ifridiot]

What are Naia's thoughts on Magneto? Does Magneto have any interest in them (as in working with them/recruiting them)?

Naia kind of thinks Magneto is like, the most badass old dude but also quite possibly insane? They’ve never gotten to meet him, but of course his reputation proceeds him. Asked to pick a side between Magneto and Xavier, they’d pick Magneto, but the exact percentage of that decision being spite over the X-Men treating them like garbage for years because of their ‘methods’ is unclear

[ifridiot]

Defiance

Wade and Naia are stuck together. Warning for crude language I guess??

"You know people ship us,” Wade says, smug because he knows this shit weirds Naia out, even if he’s never seen their naked face. It’s absolutely plain in every line of their posture.

“Oh god, no. Stop.”

“Oh, yeah, we’re a hot ticket item,” he goes on, delighted when they bristle. “Comics, couples cosplays, fanfic. Oh, god, the fanfic, you would not believe, baby boy.”

“Please shut up.”

“They think you’re a bottom.”

“I will rip your tongue out and use it to wipe my ass, Wilson, I swear to fucking god.”

With all four arms chained, two over their head and two in front of them, there was no way for Naia to make good on any threats. They’re swinging in a slow circle, hanging back to back from the ceiling, and Naia has no choice but listen to Wade laugh. The freezer they’re locked in smells like a butcher shop, and Wade keeps jerking around to try and fuck with the manacles holding him to the meat hook, which in turn jostles Naia, putting more strain on their shoulders.

Strangely, as much as they should be angry at Wade for getting them caught, they’re actually struggling to keep from laughing. They should be so pissed, and on some level they are, but there’s something so perfectly ridiculous to the situation, the pair of them strung up in some meat packing factory freezer, mobsters out front waiting for their boss to show up and tell them what to do.

No one had even made a move to unmask them, because that was for the boss to do.

It was so dramatic, so fucking heavy handed, and then in direct juxtaposition to the life threatening drama of their situation, almost in defiance of it, Wade’s teasing them. For all the concern Wade’s showing, they might as well already be back at his apartment, enjoying a post mission bowl and some take out.

Honestly, this is the kind of situation that should make one question one’s life choices, question the decisions that had brought them to this kind of thing even being a possibility. They could very realistically die tonight. They should be furious, and they should be terrified, and they should be doing a lot more to get free than waiting for Wade to figure his way out of the handcuffs.

Maybe there’s something to be said for Wade weirdly optimistic brand of nihilism. For his utter sincerity in the belief that everything will work out. Even if they die, it doesn’t matter because if they’re dead the consequences of their losing are no longer their problem.

It’ll work out or they’ll die. Doesn’t matter. In the meantime, have some jokes at the expense out our collective dignity.

There’s a certain seductive quality to that, and it’s something Naia’s come to love about working with Wade. He makes it impossible to take any situation seriously, and the higher the stakes are, the worse he gets. Sometimes it’s infuriating, but more and more Naia gives in to the sense of it just… working out. They put forth their best effort and play to their strengths and eventually their best just isn’t going to be enough. That’s part and parcel of the job; one night, sooner or later, this job will kill them.

So why not have a laugh in the meantime?

“Nah, honeybunches, you’re supposed to blush and squirm and get all embarrassed because I’m unintentionally describing your secret fantasies. I know you know your tropes, c’mon, read the tone.”

And at some point it’s really either laugh or cry.

Naia hates crying, it never solves anything and it makes their nose run.

The sound of their laughter smothers the sound of Wade falling on his ass as he gets free of his cuffs, and he’s plainly grinning when he twists Naia to face him so he can get them down.

“It’s okay, sweetums, I won’t tell anybody that you’re secretly my leather daddy dom, all tough love and punishment.”

“I think you’re thinking of Frank,” Naia says, soberly as they can manage, before breaking into an open grin when Wade chokes on a shocked laugh of his own.

[ifridiot]

@gunisher juice ur a fuckin hero for knowing enough about Naia to know they’re cool

[ifridiot]

Honey, Don’t Feed It

Sometimes you can’t help people, even when they’re the ones you most want to.

Naia meets a young Stryfe. 

Naia is not a babysitter.

Fact of the matter is, Naia doesn’t like kids that much. Didn’t like kids when they were a kid, and now that that tenuous connection to that subset of humanity is gone, they would rather avoid them as much as possible, thank you so much for asking.

Okay, maybe that’s not fair. Naia might suck with babies (they’re too loud and the fact that they cry but can’t explain why they’re crying gives them anxiety) but once kids are old enough to communicate they can handle them pretty well for small doses. Little kids could even be endearing, once they got over their fear of Naia’s extra limbs and intimidating size. Kids usually did better than adults when it came to Spider-man rescuing them; they held on and stared in awe and then they ran back to their parents or to their siblings or to whoever came to collect them.

“I’m not a child.”

It’s teenagers Naia really can’t stand.

“Kid, you’re like twelve, hush.”

Standing between the kid and the cops, Naia has their arms spread in the traditional peacekeeping posture, one set of palms spread toward the boys in blue, one toward the telepathic kid on the edge of murdering a pair of bigots. Honestly, even if the kid wasn’t a kid, Naia knows who’s side they’d be on.

Cops are always wrong, and bigots belonged in the ground, but the issue here was more that it was seven in the morning and the kid is obviously strong enough to kill the assholes he’s got caught in some kind of telekinetic death grip but isn’t. Which means he’s not the bad guy.

Now to get the cops to put their guns down.

The crowd that has gathered around the scene is doing that collective silence thing that always makes Naia a little nervous. There are a lot of witnesses -- and potential victims, if the kid decides to go off. Judging by the fierceness on his face and the creep laying on the cement with blood trickling from his mouth, eyes, ears, and nose, the kid has a lot of power. Thus far he’s managed to reel it in -- the pavement-creep is breathing like it hurts, and from what Naia has gathered, he deserves it -- but if people start shooting, Naia doesn’t think self-control is going to be the first thing on the kid’s mind.

Ugh, telepaths. Kids and telepaths. This is gonna be the death of them, this exact bullshit. Kids and telepaths, they both want to get inside your head and then get mad when your thoughts aren’t the ones they wanted to hear.

Kid, they project, trying to remember how Mom taught them to do this. Shielding and trying to hold a private conversation is difficult and weirdly exhausting. You promise not to kill anybody and I’ll get you out of here. Take you somewhere safe, help you out as best I can. But you gotta put those guys down and come with me.

They wince, almost lose their shields, at the force of emotion -- rage and contempt and a sort of pain threaded through it that Naia is pretty sure they’re not supposed to pick up on -- that is slammed back at them. They insulted me! They deserve to die!

Someone makes a helpless noise of agony, and blood starts gushing from one of the asshole’s nose. The kid has them suspended in air and, as far as Naia can tell, the two humans can’t move at all. Now one of them has a broken nose. That’s pretty fantastic control for a kid.

Dangerous, too.

Kill ‘em and the cops start shooting. You’re gonna have the whole damn city after your ass, even if you can wipe all of us out. Public enemy number one.

Why shouldn’t I? The kid’s telepathic voice is cold, dripping with condescension, but the emotions that twist through the telepathy are laced with uncertainty. The kid is lost, obviously. Naia doesn’t know the whole story, is pretty sure they don’t want to know, but they do feel a sort of vague sympathy for the kid.

Whatever pain he’s working through, being insulted by a group of anti-mutant bigots was probably the least of it. He’s a very powerful kid, but he’s just a kid, one who’s been hurt bad by someone he probably trusted.

Naia sighs.

C’mon, kid. Don’t make me side with cops.

There’s a startled sense of amusement, which is a hopeful sign. A question curls around their brain, wordless, just the impression of consideration and hesitation. It wouldn’t be bad, except Naia can feel the kid peeling at their telepathic shields. He’s damn powerful, but no one’s evidently taught him subtlety.

I am so subtle! The kid snarls, and Naia smiles under their mask. The anger fades a little, replaced by curiosity. You can get me away from here?

“The kid is gonna come with me,” Naia says out loud, keeping a steady gaze on the cops. Unsurprisingly, none of them lower their weapons, but everyone’s hesitant to shoot Spider-man after he’d saved so many people. He was a symbol, and most of the cops knew you couldn’t publicly execute a symbol without good cause. “He’s gonna drop the assholes and we’re gonna go. No shooting necessary. No one dies, you can take the creep on the ground to the hospital, it all works out.”

Put the idiots down, kid. Show of faith, c’mon.

And wonder upon wonders, the kid does. He doesn’t do it gently; he drops them like the sacks of shit they are -- it doesn’t take a telepath to find a Neo-Nazi when the jackasses love to advertise their nationalist bullshit on their clothes -- and in another miracle, the assholes stay down.

Glancing at each other, the cops finally lower their weapons, and Naia nods. “We’re gonna go. Make sure the guy bleeding all over public property gets to the hospital. Or better yet, give him a ticket for littering. Public indecency. Whatever.”

That said, Naia moves quickly to the kid’s side. One of the assholes cranes his head up to glare at them, and he growls, “Fuckin’ muties.” Naia wants to put a boot through his teeth, but before they can move, the asshole screams, blood pouring from his eyes and his nose, altogether too similar to the one unconscious over by the cops. He collapses face first back against the pavement, hopefully just passed out, and Naia feels the prickly tingle of the danger-sense just before the sound of a gun being cocked reaches them.

“Goddamnit, kid,” Naia snarls, and before he can protest, they’ve got their right two arms around him, holding him against their body as they leap up onto the roof of the nearest building. He shouts, and shoves away as soon as they’re both on their feet.

“You can’t do that,” he says sharply, hands balled into fists, glaring.

“What, prevent your dumb ass from getting shot?” Naia snaps back, and it’s gratifying to see his mouth fall open, shocked. “Kid, I had you out of there scot free, and now your fuckin’ face is gonna be up all over the city as a dangerous mutant wanted, consider him armed and dangerous. Half those people down there were filming that. Gonna be all fuckin’ over YouTube now.”

The danger sense prickles again, and they half expect the kid to lash out, but his head twists toward the roof access door, eyes still wide. Naia sighs.

“They’re coming after us. So let’s get the fuck outta here. I can stash you somewhere for a while. Couple hours, ‘til the heat dies down some and you can get out of town tonight.”

“I have business here, I can’t leave!”

Kids. Fuckin’ kids and telepaths, Naia could just about scream. “Rain check your business, dipshit! Now can you use the TK to float or do I need to carry you?”

They’d seen Cable do that a couple times, but he was supposed to be super powerful or something. And he was old, had a lot longer to practice.

Looking back at them, the kid scowls. “I do not need to be carried.”

“Then float. Let’s go.”

Really, with the kind of attitude this kid’s got, Naia half expects him to obstinately stay put, or maybe run off on his own. He seems the sort of kid to refuse help on principle, but he also has that wide-eyed touristy look, and his clipped, formal way of speaking reinforces the idea that he’s not from around here.

As if the metal chest plate and cape thing wasn’t communicating that clearly enough.

He at least stops trying to pry into Naia’s head as they lead him into Brooklyn, leaping from building to building until they get to a quiet, rundown neighborhood. Most of the windows on the building they lead the kid do have been boarded over, and the place sucks to be stuck in during winter, but on a nice September day it shouldn’t be too bad.

“This building is abandoned,” he says, sounding disdainful. “You expect me to stay here?”

They sigh, prying open the plywood-covered maintenance door and holding it for him to go in first. “I know it’s not the Ritz, kid, but I’ve got food and a place to relax instead of being hunted all over the fucking city and getting your ass handed to you by one of the masked guys who don’t have a soft spot for idiot tourist kids.”

He stares again, but only for a second, before glaring and scowling, stalking into the building with a swish of his cape. “I’m not a kid,” he grumbles, and Naia finds it really funny that he thinks that’s the part of their assessment that needs correcting. They drag the door shut and hurry to get in front of him, leading him through the abandoned building to the ground-floor apartment they’d appropriated as a safe house. It was one of the only ones that had a door in the front room that hadn’t been kicked down or taken off its hinges.

“I can’t believe you’re happy your room still has a door,” he says, still scathing in that snotty way kids who grew up with nice things had.

“You should be glad too,” Naia says cheerfully, closing the door carefully behind them. “Means no homeless people have broken in and pissed on the couch again.”

It’s not the nicest safe house they’ve had, but it’s not bad. No electricity, but the broken down couch was comfy and there had been a number of cats locked in the apartment when they’d found it. Most of them and left and never come back when they’d left the windows open for them to roam, but one big tom, old and possessed of a rusty, broken meow, had stayed.

Presently he was curled on the center seat of the couch, sleeping. The kid stood looking at the cat like he wasn’t certain if he should chase it away or leave it alone.

“Cat’s not gonna bite, just take a seat,” Naia says, amused. “Luce is nice, but he doesn’t usually like strangers much.”

This was a lie, but Naia told it to everyone they brought here because it made them happy when Luce wanted to get in their lap or purred for them. And it’s really not a surprise that he perks up when the kid sits next to him, shoved up into the corner of the couch closest to the door. He stares at the cat for a moment longer and then looks away, folding his arms across his chest.

“You said there was food.”

Naia snorts softly, moving into the kitchenette. There was a useless (and ancient) fridge, but since there was no electricity it was more a pantry than anything. Somewhere to store stuff they didn’t want Luce (or any other animal who slipped in through the cracked window) to chew into. They pry it open and take stock of what’s available. “Yeah kid, just gimme a sec. You a picky eater?”

“No,” he says, and somehow makes it sound like he’s being gracious by telling them. “And my name is Stryfe.”

“Strife?” Their eyebrows rise under the mask, leaning back from the fridge to look at him. He is staring down at the cat, who is now sniffing carefully at the edge of his cape. “Is that, like, a code name, or…?”

“It’s my name,” he says primly, head held up and jaw set. “It’s spelled with a ‘y’.”

“Ah, okay,” they say, sticking their head back in the fridge. “So your parents just hated you.”

It’s meant playfully, but they can feel the sharp way he stares at them, and it’s like all the breath in the room went out. A raw nerve, and one they just kicked hard. Fuck.

“Uh, sorry, kid, that wasn’t… That was a bad joke, I didn’t mean anything by it.” The kid starts breathing again, and Naia thinks that’s okay then. They grab a couple ramen packets and a can of chicken and step over the the counter. “So, what’re you in town for?”

His silence is telling, and they can feel him in their head again, pushing at the shields they have up, prying into them, looking for some ulterior motive, some hidden threat. They wish they were better at this telepathic shielding shit, because as it stands, they’re out of practice and it’s exhausting.

“Kid, I want to help. I’m not cooking for you so I can stab you in the back later. You think I’m gonna call the cops on you? I’m Spider-man, me and cops don’t exactly go hand-in-hand.”

The mental pressure eases somewhat, but doesn’t entirely disappear. For a long moment, he’s quiet, and they think he’s not going to answer. That’s fine, it’s not really their business, and they’ve already had a long night. Then, he says, “I’m from the future.”

Naia tries not to feel exasperation. Time-travel shit is always exhausting. They rarely have to deal with it, but they’ve been dropped into enough parallel universes to know that they’re lucky in that regards. They get pan-dimensional bullshit, let the X-Men and the Avengers deal with the time-travel shit.

“Oh,” they say as tactfully as possible, pouring a couple bottles of water into a pot and setting it on the camp-stove. “So what’s brought you, uh, to the past?”

“I’m cleaning up other people’s mistakes,” he says archly. “That’s as much as you need to know.”

Silence swallows them for a while, Naia focusing on cooking the ramen and draining the chicken and making the meal as palatable as possible. They’re running out of supplies in this place, so they’ll have to stock up soon, but they figure, what the hell, and dump a can of mixed vegetables into the ramen as well. Kid looks like he could use the fuel.

The kid eats with Luce curled up in his lap, eating with that careful sort of control that says he wants to wolf it but feels that sort of display would make him look bad. Measured and obviously relishing every bite. It would be flattering if Naia wasn’t busy trying to think about how much the future must suck if instant ramen with some canned goods tossed in is that good to the kid.

When they do start talking, they don’t talk about much. He seems pleased when they tell him the cape is a nice touch, almost smiling as he sits up a little straighter.

“I find it important to make a visual statement,” he says. Naia raises their water bottle to that, and tactfully doesn’t make any comments about drapery. The kid looks at them where they’re leaning against the wall and frowns to himself, dragging his fork through the broth that remains in his bowl. “Why do you keep the cat here if this is not your home?”

Naia shrugs, pushing away from the wall and coming to take his bowl. “He was here first. I figure if he wanted to go to a different home he would. He didn’t like it when I tried taking him out of here, so I brought him back. I make sure he gets fed and he has his couch. Also possibly he likes to hang out with the ghost of whatever cat-hoarder used to live here. There were a lot of cats when I took this place over.”

“That sounds stupid. Ghosts don’t hang around to watch cats.” They laugh, and he goes on a very serious diatribe about superstition being the crutch of a weak mind. Naia wonders if 4Chan is still big in the future. Kid sounds like he’d fit in real well with those sort of pretentious ‘intellectuals’.

While they wash up the dishes and put everything away, making note that they’re going to need more water here next time they stock up, too, they pull up music on their phone and play it to fill the silence. The kid makes faces, but doesn’t complain.

It’s a little past noon when they try to get the kid to open up again about what he’s trying to do, and he very clearly doesn’t want any part of it.  

“I have the matter in hand,” he says heatedly, arms crossing again, until Luce makes a plaintive sound at the sudden loss of being pet. He scratches at the cat’s neck, glaring daggers at Naia. “I don’t need help.”

“Well, you sure weren’t doing super hot on your own when I found you.”

He scowls and they soften a little.

“C’mon. You’re new in town, and this is a big place. I’ve been in the city all my life, I know where everything is. I can at least point you in the right direction.”

They have a little staring contest for a moment, and it surprises Naia that he’s the one to look away first. “I have to do this on my own.”

“Fuck, gimme a break. You were talkin’ so smart a minute ago, don’t shove your head back up your ass, c’mon. More hands makes less work.”

He huffs, glaring at them again, mouth pressed in a tight line. “I am on my own to prove a point, I do not need help.”

“Everybody needs help, kid.”

“I’ve told you, my name is Stryfe! I demand you stop calling me kid!”

The mask does little to hide Naia’s grin at that. If the kid weren’t sitting down with a lap full of contented cat, they think he’d have actually stamped his little foot. “How old are you, kid? Thirteen going on three?”

“I am sixteen, I’m not some child.”

Naia gentles again at that, at least a little. It’s all right to tease, but he’s so vehement, it’s clear enough that this is somehow important. Probably something someone’s pushed the kid into thinking. “The future must really suck if sixteen is when you have to start being an adult.”

“The future makes sense.” He proclaims, and Naia doesn’t know whether to laugh or just shake their head. “Once I finish what I came here to do, the future will be perfect.”

Setting their head to one side, they watch him for a minute. He’s focused on Luce, stroking over the soft fur of the cat’s head.

“If you’d tell me what you’re trying to to do,” they offer, tone as gentle as the voice modulator will allow, “I would help you.”

He looks back at them, suspicious but almost hopeful too. “You wouldn’t. And I must do it myself. That’s the whole point.”

“I’ve already been helping you. Why would I stop now?”

“You’re not unknown in the future. You wouldn’t help me.”

It’s hard to argue with an evasive time-traveler, but that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. As much as they want to help the kid, he sounds a little like a baby villain. All brooding secrets and deep hurts, ugly intentions. “You gonna kill someone?”

“I have to.” He says it flat, like it’s the obvious recourse any sixteen-year-old would come to. “He… they ruined everything. I’m going to take care of it.”

“You can’t just kill everyone who wrongs you, kid.”

His face screws up, angry, furious even. “Can’t I? That’s what you do, isn’t it? What makes Spider-man’s judgement better than mine?”

He says it like it’s a gotcha, and it’s a little surprising, how hard the words hit. Naia wants to say something about how they’re at least an adult, old enough to throw their life away crusading against actual murderous assholes. Not everyone who upset them, not even everyone who injured them. They’d had experience. This kid was just angry -- justifiably, maybe, but… he needed help. He needed patience, someone to help him unlearn this arrogant shit he used to wrap himself up and shield him from the ways he’d been hurt.

But then he smiles, sharp and cutting, and says, “Or should I just call you Naia?”

The way he pronounces their name, it sounds like a taunt, like the sound of it is something to mock. His expression does nothing to disguise the threat implied in his words.

Really, Naia’s a little sick of it. They’ve been playing nice all day despite the kid’s shitty attitude, and Naia was never a patient, kindly person. They’re not a parent, they’re not a big sibling, they’re not required to put up with this shit.

"Kid,” they say, looking down at him, scowling under the mask as they square their shoulders, “your name is Strife-with-a-Y and you ‘ported back from the oh-so-enlightened future with the manners of a four-year-old and the fashion sense to match, so just because you picked my name out of my brain, don't act like you're superior. You’re angry, and I can respect that, but you’ve done nothing to give me any reason to respect you. Bullies ain’t worth shit."

They expect anger. Yelling, maybe a punch thrown. The kid’s obviously practiced in hurting people with his TK, so maybe something like that.

Instead, the kid looks like Naia punched him. His eyes, normally narrowed and angry, are suddenly wide and open. He looks startled, like he’s grasping for his anger but so completely unused to being spoken to like that that he doesn’t know how to handle it. Naia tries to imagine that, imagine going sixteen years without anyone snapping you back in place when you were out of line, about being that secure in your right to treat anyone and everyone like shit, and finds they can’t quite do it.

“Less than a decade from now, you die a failure,” he hisses after a moment of that stunned shock. The viciousness of his tone is especially taut, the sort of tone used to mask pain with anger. He wants to lash back and hurt them. “You die ugly. Slow. And it doesn’t even matter.”

“Yeah?” Naia snaps back, nowhere near as mild as they’d like to be. “That supposed to make me, what? Stop? I might die as a loser, but I sure as shit don’t live like one.”

In a second, the kid is on his feet, Luce hitting the floor with a noise of feline offense and rushing off to the other end of the safe house. “I should kill you myself,” He says, hands balled into angry fists Naia knows he wouldn’t bother to use. He’d do for them with the TK to keep his hands clean.

“It make you feel better, threatening the only person you had on your side in this era?”

Their head bounces loudly off the wall. They hear something crack and hope to any god listening that it’s the drywall and not their skull. Collapsed on the floor, they have a hard time getting their eyes to focus through the mask, blackness lancing through their vision. They feel more than see Stryfe looming over them, and grin crookedly at him from where they sprawl.

“You’re not worth killing.” He says, savage. “Me killing you would honor you.”

They want to say something. They’re not even sure what; a dozen tones dance through their head, ways to play what just happened out to distinct, impactful ends. There’s a part of them that wants to push the kid to doing it, but they don’t know if he’s really still moral enough to get the satisfaction of his feeling bad about doing it. And thinking that makes them feel weirdly guilty. Guilty for doubting that a kid could be so devoid of humanity, for thinking he might be so far beyond help.

He makes a sharp noise at that, and they can feel it, when he finally withdraws from prying at their mind. His cape snaps at the air when he turns sharply away.

Really, a good hero would shake off the likely-concussion, get up, say something clever and thoughtful that would get him to stick around. They would try to stop him, try to save him.

Naia stays on the floor, eyes closed, and carefully shore up their telepathic shields. It’s easier to make them strong when you’re not focused on other things, like standing.

The kid’s boots click importantly against the tile, and when he shuts the front door behind him, it’s slammed sharply in place.

[ifridiot]

Naia Leadley, a 6′3″ beefy jumpboi meeting literally any ‘canon’ Spider-man: You are So Small pls b careful, i don’t want u to get squished swinging around into buildings n shit, pls, pls be careful!!!

[ifridiot]

i’m....

kinda thinkin about making an rp blog for Naia bc i like them a lot and 

hyperfixation

but also i don’t know what theme to use and i have no art of them or a face claim or anything i just

wanna w r i t e with them ;A;

[ifridiot]

fun little fact about my character Naia is, their dyscalculia is so fucking bad they’ve never even tried to get into the combination lock on their locker at work because they can’t do combination locks.

[ifridiot]

🔥 on Naia!

Unpopular Opinion on Naia Leadley

Naia is a Good Character and I am Smart for having Created Them

[ifridiot]

What dose Naia consider their best day?

I think if Naia were to answer this question, they’d talk a lot about the day they killed Green Goblin, or maybe their team-up with Doc Oc to take down Kraven because those are the two biggest victories they feel they’ve had on the public front as Spider-man. 

But they’d be thinking about the night they killed the guy who orchestrated the Leadley Massacre. Officially, this particular murder is not linked to Spider-man; this was when Naia was about seventeen and was the first time they ever actually killed anyone.

In reality, under all of that, the day that they go back to when they think of like, a day they would live forever if they could? Labor Day of the year they turned sixteen. Not the last day they spent with their parents but one of them; they’d leave to stay with Aunt May for the school year two days later. It’s not so much that it was a special day -- it was a performance day, the last one Naia would be part of, so they were all very busy, but there’s a sort of energy to the memory of that day that Naia misses. 

[ifridiot]

Punchable

Naia gets some help from Cable. Takes place about six months or so before the last fic I posted, History. Plot suggested by @byfe​

Naia knew who Cable was, had seen him in the news, heard Wade talk about him way more than they honestly ever wanted to, but he was one of those sort of… distant people, like a celebrity or a politician. He was a step above a myth, confirmed real but certainly not someone Naia ever expected to meet.

Or, as the case may be, almost punch in the face.

One minute, Naia’s alone on a dark rooftop, watching a small caravan of cars pull up to the warehouse where the Giuliani family was set to have some kind of meetup to discuss a weapon they’d acquired. Naia needed to figure out what the weapon actually was, and why Vincenzo, who previously had stuck to the drug trade with a healthy side of racketeering, had decided his family should dip into the weapons trade at all. If it came to it, they were prepared to kill a few mafiosos, but at a small sit down like this, they hoped to be able to keep casualties to a minimum.

They’re alone, mentally running through the blueprints they’d memorized of the warehouse interior, deciding the best way to sneak in without being noticed -- recon was the most important part of the night -- and then their danger-sense was going haywire.

Nothing sounds wrong, at first, but thirteen years have taught them to trust that when the danger-sense said ‘something dangerous is behind you’, something dangerous was probably behind them.

And so, before they’ve even gotten a chance to see the man up close, they spun and tried to punch him in the face.

The blow, aimed for someone closer to their height, should have hit the man in the neck, too low for a clean strike to the mouth, but still devastating. Naia could lift railcars; a punch provoked by fear was bound to be devastating.

Except, they manage to get through the spin, leaning into the punch, but then they seem to freeze, their whole body seized by some kind of paralysis.

Gives them plenty of time to recognize the dour face of the time travelling mutant soldier. His head tilts just slightly to the side, as if, when they’d turned, he’d started to sway out of the line of fire before remembering he could do this telekinetic freeze bullshit.

Let me go, fuckhead, they badly want to shout, but Spider-man is generally less ragey than Naia, and would give a guy with a reputation like Cable at least a little respect. So they just think it, loudly, before remembering that the asshole can read minds, too.

All four arms are starting to feel stiff and sore -- honestly, this is worse than trying to hide their secondary arms -- and they register that even if they could figure out something appropriate to say, they can’t move their jaw to speak.

Okay, that’s a little scary.

“Spider-man,” Cable says, measured, calm. Like he’s trying to be soothing, but is also impatient. “I need you to come with me.”

Just like that, the force holding them drops, and they stumble, catching themselves and glaring at Cable. The mask won’t translate the look, but they indulge in it anyway. Judging by the way his lips press thin together, he’s picking the sentiment up just fine.

“You realize I’m at work, right,” they hiss, two hands gesturing toward the warehouse, outside of which men are drifting, casing the area, creating their security net. It was still a few hours before Vincenzo and his guests were scheduled to show up, time Naia needed to see how the goons were going to arrange themselves so they could figure out the attack plan. “Would you show up at like, the hospital while a surgeon is scrubbing up before surgery to demand help?”

“If it were necessary. If the future depended on it,” Cable says, all cool and collected like he’s making an effort to be patient. Naia groans, sagging backwards with their face angled at the overcast sky. It’s July, and the weather seems dead set on raining. So much the better for stealth; the sound of the rain would mask any noise they might make sneaking around.

Now Naia was wasting time talking to this busybody asshole with his distracting metal arm and vaguely disapproving frown. Okay, yeah, they could maybe see where Wade was coming from, maybe, but he was still an busybody asshole.

When he smiles, the expression mostly just a deepening of the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, barely a quirk of the lips, Naia scowls. He even makes smug look good, wearing self-satisfaction with the ease of one who fully knew that he’d earned the right to feel it. Absolutely obnoxious, ugh.

“Look,” Naia says evenly, the voice modulator evening out the little bit of anxiety that would otherwise have managed to leak into their tone, “this is a one-night-only high stakes event. Whatever you want, I’ll help you tomorrow. Or next week. Or whenever you need, just not tonight, thank you for the offer, goodbye.”

Cable sighs, the resignation in his posture enough to communicate that he’d expected this to be difficult but had hoped it wouldn’t be and now he was disappointed. “Wade was right. He told me you were funny. And stubborn.”

“Yeah well, fair’s fair, Wade was absolutely wrong, ‘cause he told me I’d think you were cool and you’re actually just a bit of a prick,” Naia throws back, turning to gesture sharply, all four arms rigidly extended toward the warehouse. “I have a job to do. Stop giving me the guilt-trip Dad-Eyes and go save the future somewhere else.”

Silver eye brows hitch pretty high for a moment, lips pressing thin again. “Saving the future involves you leaving with me. Now.”

Naia turns toward him again, arms dropping. “If I don’t figure out what the fuck those men have and what they’re planning to do with it, they’re going to start killing people. People will die. I know you’re all about the ‘big picture’ and a couple dead mobsters here, a dozen dead civvies there, they ain’t nothin’ to you, but see, they are a big deal to me.”

“If you go in there tonight, you will die. I can’t let that happen.”

A beat of silence before Naia groans, turning away and staking toward the edge of the rooftop where they’d set up their little stake-out nest. “If you expect me to believe that I’m somehow important enough that the time and place of my death affects anything in the grand scheme of things, you’re way, way dumber than Wade’s led me to believe.”

“You need to know what they’ve got? They’ve got two things, Spider-man. A very powerful telepath and a lot of guns. You’ve been fed information to lead you here tonight, and they’ve done a good job, because you absolutely believe you can sneak in there and listen in on a meeting that’s not even going to happen.”

Cable talks like Naia is being obtuse, and frankly, the tone is kind of ticking them off. They get the distinct impression that he’s trying to pull strings here, and they don’t like being led. “Vincenzo Giuliani is a small time crook, he’s got no scores to settle with me outside whatever grander bullshit the Italians might be thinking. There’s been no word of a raise in the reward for my death, no incentive for him to suddenly set up some elaborate trap to reel me in.”

“The Italians have all kinds of reasons to want you in the ground. In fact, most of the criminals in New York would like to see Spider-man dead. You’re walking into a trap that was specifically designed for you, and I’m trying to help you.”

And the worst of it is, guided down that path of logic, Naia can kind of see what he means. Naia would never have gotten wrapped up in this if it was one of the bigger families, the ones with more consistent megalomaniacal bends; they would have tipped off one of the big guys, because they were great at handling small time stuff, okay with a few supervillains now and again, but they really didn’t do the flashy stuff.

Friendly neighbourhood Spider-man. A small mob family looking to dip their fingers into the weapons trade? Just their speed, something that could become a big problem but that could be taken care of before it became too much of one.

It really was sort of a tailor-made situation for them to have spent time on (and oh god, what kind of shit might have been going on while they were putting this case together) and put their focus on, and it would be, in an enclosed warehouse in an industrial park with no witnesses around, exactly the right environment for them to be outnumbered and overwhelmed. Pulled off right, it was the perfect setup to catch them, because the danger wouldn’t be direct enough for the danger-sense to warn them until it was too late. Telepaths were never fooled by their cloaking ability, and they might have a thicker skin than most, but they were definitely not bulletproof.

They couldn’t think of a reason why Cable would lie about this, but it was also… troubling… to try and figure out why it would matter enough for him to intervene. People died all day every day. Someone was probably being murdered right now, someone who could have changed the world somehow but never got their chance. What in the hell could be so important that Time Cop Jesus would decide to step in?

“Things are going to get very dark in the next few months,” Cable says, gravely, like that clarifies anything. “People will need you, your strength, your kindness. Not just the memories.”

“If this is all some kind of plot, aren’t they just going to double down on getting me dead?”

Broad shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “You know there’s a plot now. I imagine you’ll figure out how to deal with the Italians without getting killed.”

Naia squints at Cable, head tilting to one side, assessing him. “You got a real big gun there. And I’d guess you’re better at telepathic shielding than me with your, y’know,” they wiggle the fingers of one hand by their temple. “Bet together we could really fuck Giuliani’s shit up.”

This time the smile is a little more present, crooked like he’s trying to keep a straight face. “I’m not going to do that.”

“Okay, fuck, so you’re Tuxedo Mask, show up, flip your cape, you’re done here.” Naia scoffs, throwing all four hands up. “What good are you?”

“I just saved your life.”

“Yeah? You want praise and accolades? Christ.”

They can feel him staring at them as they gather up their equipment. “Wade told me you had an… interesting sense of humor.”

“Wade tell you I don’t like nights off? Fuck, I wasted so much time on this shit and I can’t even punch anyone over it.”

Cable is smiling openly when they look at him again. It’s still a rather subtle expression, a curl of his lip, the deepening of the wrinkles around his eyes. No business making smug look hot, but there he stands, the absolute bastard.

“Well,” he says, “I could use a hand with something.”

They perk up a little. “Would I be allowed to punch people?”

“It was implied, yes.”

Thunder rumbles, and the first few drops of rain splatter against the mask as they drag their jacket back on and move toward Cable. Down below, Naia can hear Giuliani’s men shouting orders at one another, still setting up security. Part of them quite badly wants to go down there and hurt some people, and they’re willing to bet that, whatever Cable said about them being important in the near future, he’d let them go if they went, even if it got them killed. He’s got that powerful Good Guy energy, the kind that says he can’t fault free will.

But why die when you can live to kill the assholes another day, when they’re not expecting it?

“Alright. Let’s go punch some assholes.”

[ifridiot]

Naia-verse Spider-man Villains

All the major players in Naia’s Spider-verse! Or at least, all the ones I can think of right now. OCs are at the bottom.

Fisk: Usual schtick, is Kingpin. Or was? Hard to say: he’s been missing for three years, following a very public showdown with Spider-man. During this fight, inadvertently created the ‘Friendly Neighbourhood’ slogan: called Spider-man a nobody, insignificant, something to be crushed ‘like a bug’. Spider-man laughed and replied, ‘yeah, that’s me; your friendly, neighbourhood Spider-man’ and punched Fisk so hard it threw him through the window of a nearby storefront. Tombstone got between Spider-man and Fisk disappeared during the ensuing confusion. No one has seen him since.

Tombstone: Killed in the above referenced public showdown with Fisk when Naia tried to go through him to get to Fisk. His neck was broken, but it’s unclear if he would have survived other injuries sustained in the fight, which were extensive.

The Vulture: A criminal mastermind and a thief, but protective of the things and values he considers his. Head of a burgeoning criminal enterprise, operates with stolen tech, has clashed with Spider-man several times, but also, on one memorable occasion, teamed up with him to clear out a human trafficking organization operating on his turf. Has a grudging respect for Spider-man, sees him as a business variable. Would kill Spider-man if he had to, but probably would feel bad about it.

Rhino: Broke two of Spider-man’s arms in their first encounter. Nearly killed Spider-man and Naia despises her. She reminds them of a bully they had to put up with growing up in the circus who was also gifted with enhanced durability. Rhino is currently incarcerated largely because of Spider-man’s persistence, though credit for her capture goes to Iron Man. She hates Spider-man almost as much as Spider-man hates her.

Mysterio: a new villain on the scene in Naia’s verse. Almost killed Daredevil (who does not get along well with Spider-man) before Spider-man intervened. Caught between saving Daredevil and finishing Mysterio off, Spider-man begrudgingly carried Daredevil to safety, allowing Mysterio to vanish.

Kraven the Hunter: o so very dead. Fought Spider-man for years, considering him ‘ideal prey’. Finally killed several months ago, when he discovered Naia’s identity and threatened Aunt May. Doc Oc helped Spider-man take him down, aware only that her girlfriend was in danger, not that there was any tie between Spider-man and May.

Doc Oc: Olivia Octavius is a bioengineer and currently dating Aunt May. Her life’s work has fused with her, giving her enhanced stamina and four extra tentacle-like arms sprouting from her back. These enhancements she uses to help her fight crime as a vigilante. Unlike Naia, she doesn’t have a secret identity; she relies on public gratitude and a cultivated persona as a hero to avoid jail. It is not public knowledge that she’s the one who managed to actually kill Kraven. Naia doesn’t quite trust her, and hasn’t revealed that they are Spider-man, a fact which causes some tension between May and Naia.

Sandman: in jail, but actually likes Spider-man. He’s one of the first villains Spider-man took down, and respects him. Shows a willingness to do good, but also very little regret about his past misdeeds.

Venom: the symbiote never bonded with Naia. Eddie Brock is its first and only human host. They’ve butted heads and fought with each other, but generally Venom elects to stay out of Spider-man’s way. They have their own priorities, but occasionally help one another out.

Carnage: on the Hit List, but so far all attempts to even subdue Carnage have gone very poorly for Spider-man. Naia wants to kill them more out of fear than fury, worried about the danger of letting something like Carnage run rampant. It was during their first clash with Carnage that Spider-man was introduced to Deadpool formally (though they knew of him before that), and Wade quickly became a valuable ally and close friend, having saved Spider-man’s life several times since.

Green Goblin: one of the first super villains Spider-man faced. Crazy, violent, bloody, Norman Osborn was already on Naia’s Hit List for his association with the anti-mutant American Peope’s Militia, his tech having been used in the mutant suppressant used in the Leadley Massacre. When he became the Green Goblin and started killing people, Naia went against him alone, several times. During their first encounter, Spider-man left Green Goblin with what should have been fatal wounds, including several broken bones that, even if he’d survived, should have crippled him. He healed perfectly, making himself as much a menace in their second encounter. They fought for years, until Spider-man managed to damage the Goblin Glider and send Norman crashing into the ground, where the Glider exploded. He did not recover.

Equalizer, AKA Laurent LeBlanc: criminal mastermind, Nazi, nationalist, ridiculously rich and powerful, LeBlanc sits at the center of an enterprise built on war profiteering and hate. He has ties to the US government, and is known to endorse Superheroes like the Avengers. He keeps his personal life a closely guarded secret, and though there are several conspiracies linking him to Hydra and other Nazi organizations, these are largely regarded as baseless and crazy because he’s so well known as a philanthropist. Think Elon Musk meets Lex Luthor; tech-savvy, smarmy, good public persona over an utterly evil core. Hates mutants, violently. Moonlights as Equalizer, the head of the American People’s Militia, an anti-mutant hate-group that violently terrorizes mutants. Naia has never gone head-to-head with him, but is positive Laurent LeBlanc is a bad guy and feels strongly that there’s a connection between him and APM.

Mane, AKA John Douglas: A chemist at the bioengineering facility Naia works at, John Douglas is a kind, sympathetic man, one of the few scientists who cares enough to know Naia’s name, talk to them, ask how they’re doing. He is one of Naia’s few friends, often sharing lunch with them. He’s one of the few people who consistently uses Naia’s preferred pronouns and genuinely cares about their well-being. As Mane, he’s one of Spider-man’s greatest enemies. A bounty-hunter and mercenary, he often targets mutants. Known to work with or for Equalizer. John has no clue that Naia is Spider-man, Naia has no clue that John is Mane.

The American People’s Militia: A KKK-esque cult/hate group that blends White Supremacy and anti-mutant sentiment. The APM publically took responsibility for the Leadley Massacre (the mass killing of the circus Naia’s family operated). They’re en extensive organization, seeded throughout the US.