The Calm Before the storm
POV: First Person (Silas)
The church, St. Agnes on the Corner, stood stoic in the city's old district, its heavy oak doors etched with centuries of prayers and fingerprints. The air within was an alchemy of polished mahogany, beeswax, and the lingering trace of too many perfumes mingling from the gathering crowd. Early sunlight, eager and bright, tumbled through tall stained-glass windows, painting the pews in fractured hues of midnight blue, saffron, and blood-red—each beam shifting as clouds skimmed past. Carved angels watched from arching rafters. Wooden pews groaned and creaked beneath the assembly, while velvet cushions showed faded patches from years of anxious hands.
At the altar, Brian stood in a smart ash-gray suit, shoes shined to a mirror gleam. His hair, dark and thick, was neatly combed but already rebelling at the crown. His hands fidgeted around the edge of his cufflinks, betraying nerves his composed, square-shouldered stance endeavored to hide. His eyes—warm chestnut, lit with nervous excitement—kept darting beyond the crowd, scanning for his bride as his best man, Jamal, gave him a steadying nudge and an encouraging grin.
The best men flanked Brian in coordinated midnight blue, with white boutonnieres perched above silk pocket squares. Jamal, the best man, tall and broad, wore his role with practiced ease, flashing roguish smiles to family and friends in the pews. To his right, Marcus and David, both cousins, shared whispered banter, shifting their weight from foot to foot and straightening each other's ties.
On the other side of the aisle, the bridal party moved down in a gentle procession. Maid of honor, Tasha, radiant in silver and soft pink, carried herself with an effortless elegance mingled with an edge of protective watchfulness—her eyes always on Michelle. The bridesmaids followed: Lila and Carmen, dresses shimmering in pale rose, bouquets trembling in their hands. Each had their hair swept back in gentle curls and carried the nervous excitement of the day in the glimmer of their eyes.
Michelle appeared at the entrance, the congregation's collective breath catching. Her dress was ivory, whisper-fine lace draped over her shoulders and a skirt that trailed behind her like mist. A halo of sunlight crowned her tight knot of curls, loose ringlets framing her face and highlighting the glitter of tears threatening to spill. She moved slowly, deliberate, her arm linked with her father's—his mouth set in proud determination. Michelle's smile flickered—an incandescent thing between nerves and uncontainable joy—the way people look only when standing at the edge of something brand new.
Inside the pews, family pressed close. Mothers dabbed the corners of their eyes with folded tissues. Children fidgeted, their patent leather shoes hanging above the floor. The music played soft, swelling as Michelle walked towards Brian, whose composure melted into a lopsided, overwhelmed grin.
As the pastor began—his voice warm, aged by years and conviction—sunlight danced across the old wood and the faces turned toward the altar. The vows were spoken, sometimes steady, sometimes broken by laughter. When Michelle stumbled over a line, Brian's eyes crinkled with silent laughter, and the congregation's tension eased into grins.
At the end, the moment of the kiss seemed to ring with an almost cinematic clarity: applause, camera flashes strobing the nave, the dusty organ launching into something ancient and triumphant. In the crowd, family hugged, friends whispered, and more than one old woman pressed a hand to her heart.
The church, in that hour, felt less a building and more a living witness—one that had seen centuries of joy and heartbreak, that now added Michelle and Brian—bride and groom, nervous maids and steady best men, and a cluster of hopeful guests—to its hallowed, scented memory.
The reception was held in a rented hall overlooking the Hudson.
Fairy lights strung from the ceiling. A live band played Afrobeat mixes with R&B twists. The food was solid—jollof rice, plantains, lemon-glazed chicken—and the drinks came fast.
I kept to the edge, watching Michelle and Brian dance, spin, and laugh through it all. The kind of happiness you only see in movie endings.
At some point, Brian waved me over.
"You alright, cousin?" he asked, half-drunk, half-sweaty.
"Yeah," I said. "You?"
He nodded. "We made it, bro. We actually made it."
We bumped fists.
Later, they made their exit—suitcases in hand, passports packed. Honeymoon out of the country. Somewhere warm, quiet, and villain-free.
I didn't envy them.
I just hoped they stayed gone long enough to forget what nearly happened.
The next few days passed in a blur.
With the wedding done, family slowly peeled off. A few went back to their own cities. Some stayed with friends. My mom, still rattled but trying to be brave, filled her days with cooking, texting prayer circles, and scrolling news headlines about "the winged monster" in Manhattan.
I just wanted to be left alone.
One week left in this city. I figured I'd make it count. And what other way to spend the week in another city then just moving all about the city looking at some famous spots.
It was just the beginning of the week. And it started with a police scanner buzz.
I was on a rooftop, watching the sunset bleed across the skyline when the alert hit my burner phone: Code 8-3. Armed standoff. Midtown. Civilians in crossfire.
Couple of seconds later, I was gone. When I reappeared above the street on the ledge of a building, I looked around just to see bullets were already flying about. Gunfire cracked the air, sharp as breaking glass. The shouts of terrified civilians clashed with the metallic tang of cordite and city grime. Lo and behold, it was what appeared to be two gangs, most likely warring factions—bristling with automatic weapons—were going at it in front of a half-closed jewelry store. The glow from the sign flickered erratically as bullets shattered the front display, gemstones glinting in the gutters. Civilians ducked behind cars. A car alarm blared. Glass shattered everywhere, raining onto the pavement in a sound like breaking ice.
Spider-Man dropped in from above, webbing a guy mid-shot and launching him into a dumpster. He landed in a crouch, suit streaked with dust, eyes narrowing behind the mask.
"Hey, fellas!" he called out, voice light despite the chaos. "Anyone up for non-lethal conflict resolution?"
They shot at him.
I appeared beside a mother shielding her daughter, grabbed them both, and teleported to the top of a fire escape. They screamed until they realized they were safe. Below, someone fired wildly—bullets pinged off brick, ricocheting dangerously close to an abandoned stroller.
Then I was back—blinking in and out of the chaos, yanking hostages to rooftops and alleyways. Passing through the flash and roar of gunfire, I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, each jump burning with adrenaline. Spidey dodged bullets like he was made of wind, a blur of blue and red as he darted among the gunmen, kicking down thugs left and right. He flung webs in tight arcs, disarming a man just as I materialized at his side, spiriting away a wounded shopkeeper.
A gang member spotted me and swung his rifle around; instinct took over, and I vanished an instant before the muzzle flash, reappearing behind him and sweeping his legs out. He hit the pavement with a thud, groaning as Spider-Man zipped past, quipping, "Thanks for the assist, Nightcrawler."
The chaos ebbed in bursts. One side surrendered. The other ran. Spider-Man tied up the survivors like Christmas presents, binding wrists and ankles in a neat webbed bundle.
We didn't say much after. Just gave each other a nod.
That's how it worked sometimes.
It was supposed to be a calm afternoon.
I was walking past a food truck, biting into a hot dog, when the sky split with a sonic boom.
The sound cracked over the buildings like thunder dipped in metal. Everyone around me froze, heads whipping up.
Metal shrieked against glass.
Then came the shadow.
A blur shot across the skyline—dark, sleek, and violent. Jet propulsion flared from the edges of massive steel wings. The body between them moved like a missile with intent.
Vulture.
His suit looked custom—industrial, military-grade, patched with Oscorp tech and old-world rage. His helmet reflected the city back in distorted glints. And beneath him, mounted to his legs, were twin sets of metallic talons—claws meant for tearing through steel, each toe hydraulically powered to snap shut like a bear trap.
He dove toward the street, locked those talons onto the roof of one of the Oscorp trucks rolling through the intersection.
The claws punctured the metal like it was foil.
With a mechanical growl and a sudden upward thrust, he lifted the entire truck off the ground, wings roaring, flames trailing behind.
People screamed. Drivers swerved. Chaos exploded.
Vulture dragged the truck thirty feet into the air, tilted it—and dropped it like garbage. It slammed into the center of the intersection, throwing up a shockwave of dust, sparks, and broken glass.
He turned midair, circled once like a hawk, then dove toward the second truck.
That's when Spider-Man arrived.
He swung in fast and hard, webbing the second truck's windshield before launching himself at Vulture with a full-force kick.
"Back off, Angry Bird!" he shouted, landing a solid hit across Vulture's shoulder.
The two collided mid-air, wings against webs.
I teleported onto a rooftop just in time to see Vulture spin and blast Spider-Man back with a concussive wingbeat. Spidey flipped, landed on a lamppost, then shot another web at Vulture's face.
The crowd below was panicking, running in every direction. One of the damaged Oscorp trucks was leaking strange vapor. Another had crashed into a sidewalk bodega. Flames licked at the edges of its cab.
I teleported again—yanking a kid out from under a falling streetlight. Then a construction worker from the scaffolding. Then a woman screaming for her dog. Civilians came first.
I reappeared behind a car just as Vulture let out a piercing screech—one of his sonic shockers, built into his wings.
The blast ruptured nearby windows and blew me clean off my feet.
I managed to teleport mid-fall, but I misjudged the trajectory. I crashed right through the back of the third Oscorp truck—straight into what appears to be a storage compartment that was marked with ARMAMENT / PROTOTYPES. And in there were various types of techs spotted a small black case sitting atop the others.
I opened it fast. Inside, etched into the inner lid: PROJECT HALO.
Three objects lay in foam:
A tiny microchip device A pair of advanced contact lenses A sleek, curved bone-conduction receiver And a small USB drive tucked beside them
No idea what any of it did. But it screamed high-value. I opened my shadow and shoved the whole case into the void. From outside the truck, I could heard Spider-Man shouting while dodging vulture's attacks "Yo sentinel, dude mind helping me out here man!"
I teleported out.
I reappeared mid-air, just above the wrecked truck where Vulture shredded Spidey's web traps with those damned talons. The guy was a blur—every wingbeat sending shockwaves of dust rolling across the street.
Spider-Man clung to the scaffolding, dodging Vulture's dive-bombs and flinging webs to stay moving. "Took you long enough!" he called, voice razor-sharp.
I grinned. "Brought a gift. Let's shut him down."
Vulture screeched, whipping around to aim his sonic blasters at a group of trapped civilians. Reflexes kicked in—I blinked out, teleported the group to safety, and reappeared right in Vulture's flight path. He didn't see me coming.
A blade of raw energy from my belt's core cleaved into his left wing's thruster plate—sparks rained down as he spun off-balance.
Spider-Man, in motion, launched a double-web grenade. Electrified netting snared Vulture's left wing, and it caught fire.
He spiraled, barely catching himself on a radio tower, talons gouging metal. With a roar, he blasted both of us back with a sonic shriek. I tumbled across a rooftop; Spidey stuck the landing.
"Right wing's still clean!" Spider-Man yelled. "Clip it or he's flying off!"
I blinked to an Oscorp crate, grabbed a lock buster explosive, and teleported behind Vulture—planting it on his backplate. I vanished just as his claws sliced the air where I'd been.
Spider-Man was ready—he shot a web at Vulture's leg and yanked him straight into a rooftop water tower.
Boom.
The tank split. Water flooded out, sending Vulture skidding, armor sparking. His helmet was cracked; one wing hung limp, leaking hydraulic fluid.
"You think you've won?" Vulture rasped, struggling up. "Kids, you're just playing dress-up."
"Cool costume for a bird with a grudge," Spidey quipped.
"You have no idea what you're in the middle of," Vulture warned, tapping a panel on his wrist.
A drone glider shrieked in, snapping onto him and yanking him skyward before we could move.
We both stood catching our breath, watching him vanish into the night.
"He's gonna be a problem," I muttered.
Spider-Man nodded. "But for tonight? Message delivered."
I watched as my breath slowed, the city's chaos gradually dimming around us.
Aftermath: Rooftop Reflections
Later, we found ourselves on the edge of an old rooftop, legs dangling above a city numbed by chaos. Sirens wailed in the distance; somewhere, traffic still cursed.
Spider-Man sipped a Gatorade. I ripped open a protein bar, the fatigue finally hitting.
"New York's wild," I said, glancing at the blinking skyline.
"Babysitting a toddler with super strength," he muttered. We both genuinely laughed.
I leaned back. "Heading back soon."
"Detroit?" he asked, half his mask rolled up.
"Yeah. My city's heating up again. This trip was supposed to be just a break... learning from the best."
He elbowed me. "Since when do you flatter me, Sentinel?"
I snorted. "You're alright. Annoying, talk too much, but alright."
Silence. The helicopter blinked red over Midtown.
"You ever think this all ends?" I asked.
He shrugged. "I used to. Now I just try not to die and help as many people as possible."
"That's fair."
Standing, I brushed off my coat. "Keep an eye on Oscorp. They're not done."
"You too—Detroit Shadow Ninja."
I smirked. "I like that one."
He raised his Gatorade in a toast. "Any time, my man."
We sat for a moment, watching the city breathe. Then I blinked away, back to the life that never really slowed down.