Chapter 4
It was not Victor von Doom's preference to spy on those who were not already his enemies. Such tendencies were paranoid, controlling, and would often engender hostility. It took him years, and more than few needlessly burnt bridges, to break himself free of that vice.
Thus, Doom knew that his choice to use magic to watch over Peter and the girl came solely from the goodness within Dr. Doom's heart. Peter's own vaunted Spider-Senses, so uncanny and yet surprisingly subtle, did nothing to alert him to Doom's intrusion. There was no malice here.
Only concern.
Dr. Doom heaved a sigh, before simply dispersing the conjured sounds and images of his friend speaking to his former wife's niece. Joe Fixit, who also saw everything Doom did, gave a grunt.
The girl, Annie Byrnes, even had the name of Peter's middle child. He had wasted no time in projecting his dead daughter onto her. To put on his mask and his costume and ride to her defense. To the defense of a city that had never been grateful for him. Even Joe Fixit, the third cleverest of Bruce Banner's mental collective, had picked up on it.
"Does he hate himself?" Doom mused.
"Yeah, probably?" Joe Fixit said with a shrug. "He misses his wife, he misses his kids, and he usually thinks everything bad that happens is his fault." Joe gave a bitter smile. "Even I come off as well adjusted by comparison."
"Because, Dr. Banner, you no longer blame yourself. Even when things really are your fault," Doom said tonelessly.
Joe scowled for a moment, in a way that only the Hulks could. It was not a casual expression of disdain or annoyance. There were depths and fathoms to this kind of hatred, a view into a bottomless ocean. Joe Fixit's eyes, for a moment, were like the portholes of a submarine. One that was drowning in truly terrible seas. Lesser men would have been terrified at the mere implication of such a thing, but never Doom.
And then it was gone. Because for a Hulk, it was only ever a scowl.
"Heh," Joe said with a snort, and a sneer. "There's no way this buddy-cop bullshit we're trying to pull will work without the web-head, will it?"
Doom sighed again, as he sat back on the no-doubt tick infested cot. "You would probably have an easier time sleeping on this donated camping gear while in human form, my dear Hulk."
"I could say the same with you and all your metal, Vic," Joe said, with the same false cheer.
"On the contrary," Doom said sternly. "My armor is lightweight, cushioned, and insulated. The intent was to spend a lifetime encased within it, if need be."
Joe glared down at Victor. A black ocean swam again, behind those beady eyes. "Then don't you ever suggest that I take my armor off around you either," Joe said with a hiss.
"Point taken… Mr. Fixit," Doom said, with deliberate courtesy. Joe gave a sullen nod, and simply gathered what he could. Soft blankets and a clean floor.
They both were long used to making do with worse.
"The way I see it," Joe continued as he rolled over onto his side, "we're not getting anywhere with each other unless we have Pete on board too. So we'll let our guy get his head back on straight and find his sea legs again. All eight of 'em. He can do the superhero thing if he wants to. We got time to figure this out. Years. Mister Great Responsibility isn't going to get distracted and forget the bigger picture. We'll just give him his space… and dig him out if he gets too deep."
It did not sit entirely well with Doom. Annie Parker was dead and gone. To treat this girl as a proxy, however unintentionally, was not a path forward. To once again take up the mantle of Spider-Man was not a path forward. There was no way for the Arachnid to truly get back what he lost, and the sooner he abandoned his suffocating guilt, the sooner he could move on to more constructive things. Or he would surely go mad.
Mad.
Doom clenched his fist, his mind abruptly veering on to an entirely different train of thought. Peter's endless guilt, coupled with his abiding losses had become a kind of madness. Maladaptive, undoubtedly. But.
But they had dared to call Doom insane too, for his inability to accept what was. For his refusal to surrender the beautiful impossibilities of what might one day be.
No, it was only right for the Arachnid to refuse to accept what is, Doom instantly concluded. He would permit Peter his obsessions and eccentricities and need to play the hero. It was not Doom's place to interfere with another man's soul. Latverians would always be permitted to keep their own counsel. The dystopian notions of psychic surveillance or thoughtcrime were always abhorrent to him. He always respected freedom of thought, if not necessarily speech. His people would always have the inalienable right, within the privacy of their own minds, to wrestle with their inner demons.
Then so too did Peter.
It was thus only gentle concern that made Doom once again invoke his magic, to see what Peter was up to again.
---
He'd worn a variety of costumes over the years. Most of them were as Spider-Man. They were stitched with a sewing machine borrowed from his aunt, or they were a mix of Kevlar and metal plating, or sometimes they would cost millions of dollars and had all the latest tech… for those brief periods that he could afford to repair and maintain them.
And sometimes they were space aliens, hell-bent on killing him.
But the one he wore now was something proposed to him, years ago, by an old tailor named Leo Zelinsky. Long used to making costumes for heroes and villains both, Leo had always favored pragmatism. His outfits were to be clothes first, and costumes second. Really, all he needed now was the jacket, which even after all these years and after going through so much, was still able to keep him safe from New York's rain. It was an understated, and eminently practical red and black number, with his spider symbols on the front and back. And all he needed to do was turn it inside out, and he was back to being another of New York's homeless. If nothing else, it was far more comfortable and took far less time and desperate fumbling than the full body spandex did. It was the only costume he'd ever worn that was easy to maintain after everything ended. Ideal for his current life, if nothing else.
His mask and the gloves, both a plain and unadorned red, were simply kept tucked away in his pockets. The web shooters were hidden beneath the sleeves. It was practical, or maybe it was just boring. He was lucky to have survived so many years as Spider-Man, and he'd reached an age where most professional athletes accepted that time would only wear away at them. He didn't need a loud outfit to speak for him, anymore. Though both Mayday and the Bugle said that it made him look old, and dull.
He'd finished repairing the mask's lenses, putting it on before he stared at himself in the murky restroom mirror. All the holes were patched up, and the mask was intact. He was himself again, and it was as if the end of the world never happened. He still cut a good figure, like he did in his best days. He remembered one time, when Mayday saw him with the costume on and…
"Don't go," his eldest child pleaded, as she realized just how much the red in his costume had hid how badly he'd been bleeding. "Don't go," she sobbed into his chest, "don't do this anymore."
His wife looked on silently, cradling their infant son. If their daughter could not move him, then nothing would.
Because she had tried for years, and she knew that she couldn't.
He looked away from the mirror.
'There's nobody left to stop you. You can go.'
He went out into the night, in silence. He was a bullet that had been loosed more than a year ago.
Regrets were gone. All he felt was fearless.
---
Johnathan Gallo, Ricochet, was afraid. That was mostly bad, especially on a night like this. But maybe it was also good in its own way, because it proved to him that he wasn't completely crazy. Like Edward, like Hornet, he never really felt like his alter ego had managed to swallow up the rest of his life.
Not the way it did Dusk, and Johnny was pretty sure Cassie had become some sort of ghost or vampire or zombie now. Cassie really didn't want to investigate her condition any further.
Neither did Johnny or Ed, if they were being honest. But somehow even Cassie came off as more stable than Prodigy. Not Richard Gilmore, just Prodigy. 'If you're in the suit, you will only say codenames,' Prodigy would always admonish. 'You will only think of us with codenames. And in your head, when the mask is on, you only think of yourself as Ricochet.'
Cassie died and came back, but Prodigy had even less of a life outside of his goddamned costume. He was the leader, for the simple fact that Ricochet, Hornet, or Dusk had no interest in the idea.
"You scared, Ricochet?" Prodigy's toneless voice echoed from beneath the featureless metal faceplate of his white and gold armor. There wasn't any reproach, per se. Just a simmering sort of aggression that was always buried under everything the guy said, no matter what he did.
And Prodigy was exactly the same way when his mask came off. Ricochet looked down at the streets below, at the honest-to-God henchmen dressed up in leering black and white Chinese Opera masks. They were Mister Negative's only partially brainwashed private army, his Inner Demons. They were Negative's first line, the vanguard of a human trafficking operation run in a dockside warehouse behind them. And besides an assortment of knives and even swords, they also carried guns.
"Scared that we're about to fight heavily armed human traffickers 'roided out with the same Darkforce crap Ca—" he already slipped on Prodigy'scode-names only rule "—Dusk is up to her eyes in?" Ricochet muttered; his sarcastic tirade was only briefly halted by his near miss.
"They're still baseline humans, no matter how much their boss is boosting them. They're not bullet proof," Prodigy chided.
"Neither am I!" Ricochet reminded them. "Do you have any idea how nerve wracking it is to just shut my brain off and just hope the Danger Sense doesn't end up getting me shot?"
If Prodigy wasn't such a hard ass, he'd have probably made a joke about how Ricochet always had his brain shut off. Instead, he just shook his head. "You can't let your instincts take over when you let yourself get nervous like that. Let it go and trust yourself, because worrying really will kill you."
"That's easy to say when your armor makes you bulletproof, man," Ricochet whined.
Hornet chimed in, his goateed face frowning beneath his retracted purple faceplate. "As the other guy with bulletproof armor, let me say plainly that getting shot at isn't any less scary for me." Neither Prodigy nor Ricochet responded. "I'm just saying."
Prodigy crossed his arms. "You can always just go home tonight, Ricochet."
No, he couldn't.
"Let's just decide our approach," Ricochet sighed, as he pulled his white mask above his nose.
"Someone's already approaching," Dusk suddenly chimed in, without ceremony. Both Ricochet and Hornet pretended not to be spooked. She was, very likely, standing there silently the whole time. Besides all the teleporting, her solid black cloak and featureless black hood were incredibly good at keeping her hidden against New York's starless night sky.
But, it also wouldn't get her many bootleg action figures. Ricochet didn't know how he felt about those, but it was clear to him that out of all the team he had the dubious honor of being the most toyetic.
'Stop trying to distract yourself with your weird inner monologues.'
Prodigy, by contrast, was always all business. "They're on to us?" he asked.
Dusk shook her head. "The bad guys aren't approaching us. Someone else is approaching them." She pointed a finger, towards the nearby rooftops.
"I don't see 'em," said Ricochet, straining his eyes in the dark.
Prodigy snapped his fingers. "Hornet."
Hornet knew better than to talk back now. They were officially on the clock, as of this moment. He silently raised his purple gauntlet and made a few adjustments with his other hand, before scanning the skyline on multiple visual wavelengths.
"It's a… guy, I think, in a red mask and a black and red coat. Traversing the rooftops by tethers. Grappling hooks maybe?" Hornet sounded genuinely curious about the latter.
"Daredevil?" Prodigy asked.
"The mask hasn't got the horns," Hornet said absently. "Uh, big spider symbols on his chest and back."
"Black Tarantula?" Prodigy asked with a growl.
They'd technically beaten Black Tarantula the last time he squared off against the four of them. They'd at least stopped him from getting away with God-only-knew-what from Oscorp, so it was a kind of a win?
But even if they stopped the theft, they were still the ones who ran away at the end. And they would've all been killed if it weren't for Dusk teleporting them all away.
Hornet shook his head. "Smaller guy than Black Tarantula. Maybe an affiliate? …Database is coming up blank, so he's either an old face with a new gimmick, or he's a new player. At least in this country."
Prodigy thought for a moment… then shook his head. "We're not getting involved in what might be a three-way fight. Dusk, Hornet, keep eyes on him. If he's one of Negative's, we plan around that and try again another night."
Ricochet wasn't ashamed to say that he felt relieved, hearing that.
But he also felt strangely disappointed.
Ricochet finally saw the Black Tarantula knockoff with his own eyes. While he had to admit that the guy's costume managed to have a cohesive sense of style, it still had a rough and homespun desperation to it. It was as if the guy just picked up an ordinary set of clothes and then used a sewing machine to turn it into a Halloween getup. It was the kind of thing you'd usually only see on D-list vigilantes or complete rookies. It was a set of clothes first, and a uniform second.
Which meant that he was someone that was far closer to the level of the Slingers than he was to Daredevil. But at least the Black Marvel had provided the Slingers a snazzier set of outfits.
The guy was fast though, scary fast. He somehow covered more ground swinging around like George of the Jungle than Hornet or Prodigy could ever manage with their rockets going at full blast. Ricochet couldn't swing like that.
He was pretty sure even Daredevil couldn't swing around like that.
But where the guy was swinging to was another matter entirely. The man simply let go of his tethers, did himself a little backflip, and landed on both feet atop one of the streetlights. His back was straight and rigid, and his arms crossed.
Right where the Inner Demons below could easily see him.
"He's either one of them or he's a complete idiot," Ricochet said conclusively. Prodigy nodded his head.
---
It was almost a formula for Peter.
He'd pick off the guys on the margins, quick and quiet. Then he'd go to where they were most concentrated, say something funny or outlandish to take the few seconds the confusion would buy him, and then dismantle them all. He'd done it a thousand times, in a thousand alleyways, dilapidated tenements, and condemned warehouses.
But he was in no mood tonight. The Inner Demons weren't worth it. Martin Li wasn't worth it. He'd broken their gang up already, years ago. He already knew how they worked, and what tricks they could pull. None of it was especially remarkable to him anymore.
He couldn't end them here and now. Martin had too many assets and too much influence for Peter to deal a decisive blow right off the bat.
But he would shatter them all before the end of the week.
They just weren't worth the effort, as he surveyed the several dozen demon-masked men below his perch.
"
He was hardly a polyglot, but he'd picked up more than a little Russian, Italian, Mandarin, Cantonese, and Japanese over the years. He was never fluent, and none of it was comparable to what he retained from Spanish lessons in highschool years ago. It was largely driven by simple curiosity regarding what these people were screaming at him. He'd learned some simple phrases, like: 'shoot him,' 'get him,' 'look out,' or 'help help, there's a maniac in a spider costume pummeling me.' Enough that he could also convey simple ideas like 'drop your weapon,' 'let them go,' and most importantly: 'bring me your boss.'
Their continued silence proved to Peter that his accent must have been terrible.
They didn't rush in, much to Peter's surprise. It didn't take him long to realize that unlike before, he was totally unknown this time around. While in the old days they would have immediately moved towards fight or flight, now he was a cipher. Who was this new masked man? Does he have any powers? And most importantly: was he one of the ones who killed?
For him, it was routine. But for the Inner Demons, this had abruptly become a matter of life or death. They hadn't even started, and yet Martin's enforcers were already crippled by hesitation.
'A lesson for the future,' he thought. There was always more to learn, and there would always be more room to improve.
"
He leapt off the lamppost, and on his descent cut loose with a single hammer kick to the face of the closest Demon that was carrying a gun. The Inner Demon's wooden mask split in half with the blow, and the sheer weight of the strike concussed him. As his gun also fell to the ground, Peter swiftly snatched it out of the air with a thin strand of webbing before tossing it up to be suspended from the lamppost above him.
He wouldn't abide an accidental discharge killing someone.
In the blink of an eye, he was already charging at two more men, simply gripping them by their masked heads and slamming them to the ground. He made sure to stay close to his enemies, always staying on the offensive. This was a tactical consideration, rather than a petty way of venting anger. The closer he was to an enemy, the less likely one of the ones with guns would risk shooting at him.
He knew Martin Li, and he knew his men. They were wretched, at times, but they weren't such mad dogs that they'd risk killing each other. They dared not fire a single shot into the chaotic melee that Peter now swam in. They had commendable discipline, one that Peter could trust and rely on even as he shattered their weapons and their limbs.
He wouldn't dare attempt such tactics on more typical gangsters.
Peter worked to cause as much chaos as he could in that tangled swirl of limbs, and his webbing was always an able partner in that regard. With a flick of his wrist, he could use his webs to blind a man. Their attempts to pull his webs free from their eyes would only mean their hands were stuck to their faces as they flailed impotently against material that was stronger than steel. Even the ones with blades would take far too long to slice through each strand. While Martin's energy could enhance his men's strength and speed, they were hardly superhuman.
He fired a strand of webbing at the biggest one's chest, and then used him as a flail to bowl over the other men. Anyone who was huddled too close to one of his friends would receive another quick blast, as they found themselves hopelessly entangled in webbing with each other. Every strike they attempted was dodged or turned aside, which then immediately transitioned into a counterblow. For all that they tried to kill him, and they were really determined to try, they couldn't help but look like they'd choreographed their own beatdown with him weeks in advance.
It was child's play, and he didn't even need to bring out any of his more unconventional tricks. Even his bare hands could do the job. Even when he started all this at the age of fifteen, the worst he'd have had was a few bruises. Back then, he'd have called it good practice for his daughters—
'Stop getting distracted. All fights are deadly.'
He increased his speed, and aggression. He was in no mood to reminisce, or to wallow in more regret. There were worse things in store for him tonight.
He barely used his webs now, and while his reserves of ammunition were still high, he hardly needed them. Every strike was calculated, to either outright incapacitate or dislocate a limb. Things proceeded faster from there, and a few even lost their nerve and simply bolted.
Those were the ones who found themselves entangled in the webbing. He didn't want Martin or the rest of his gang to know what was coming, just yet. As the herd thinned, as the press of bodies became less dense, Peter also became a much clearer target. And that made the ones with guns a bit bolder.
It wasn't anything Peter hadn't seen coming.
He quick fired his webs again with uncanny accuracy, letting instinct guide him more than anything else as he simply latched on to their pistols and then used his far superior strength to pull the weapons free from their hands with a mere twitch of his wrists. In quick sequence he repeated the action, and in less than a second six separate sets of firearms had flown into the air. A motley collection of revolvers, automatics, and… what appeared to be a frankly gaudy gold-plated Walther PPK from an apparent Bond fan in the crowd.
He wished he kept track of the one who'd been holding on to that.
All six guns were up in the air regardless, and swiftly found themselves hurtling towards his hands, one by one. They were all caught, and then crushed in his hands and casually tossed behind him, into the water.
Even the very expensive Walther.
The bare handful of men left conscious were simply standing there flummoxed after being disarmed so swiftly. All except the last one. The last man still held on to his gun, and only because Peter had allowed him to do so.
In exchange, Peter's eyes were always fixed on him.
'Time to see if you still have it. Do or die.'
If he couldn't manage this, he simply couldn't handle what he knew was coming. So he'd put himself to the test now, not later.
When he was disarming the Inner Demons, he noticed that one's hands were steadier than the others. His grip was surer. So Peter only made a tentative pull, before simply letting the weapon rest comfortably in the man's hands again. He was less likely to miss, or to have his inaccuracy put Peter at any potential risk. The Inner Demon kept his hands steady and aimed for the bulk of Peter's mass. Dead center, at the spider on his chest. Peter went into a stance and took a deep breath. His Spider-Sense screamed at him to simply dodge, but he denied it. Some things simply had to be taken head on.
He took a step, and the shot rang out.
Without even breaking stride, Peter continued to step forward. It was as if the bullet had bounced off him. The Inner Demon stared numbly as the seemingly bulletproof masked man strolled casually towards him.
The Inner Demon didn't bother firing another shot. He just stared at Peter silently, until they were practically mask to mask.
Like a magician, Peter held out his closed right fist in front of the Inner Demon's eyes. He opened his hand and dropped the bullet to the ground.
"
Peter only silently held out the palm of his right hand. With trembling delicacy, the Inner Demon surrendered his firearm.
There were only a handful of them still conscious, but the fight had well and truly died in all of them.
---
Ricochet and the rest of the Slingers stared down mutely at the aftermath.
"That was…" Ricochet struggled for the right word. Terrifying? Amazing?
"That was something, all right," Hornet said, equally stunned. Prodigy and Dusk continued to look down in silence.
"He didn't even go all out. Even Black Tarantula couldn't…" A bit of emotion was beginning to enter Prodigy's voice as he spoke, though Ricochet couldn't quite determine if it was envy or awe.
"He moved like Ricochet," Dusk said, her voice brimming with curiosity.
"Not in a million years," Ricochet spat. Was he even insane enough to even attempt something like catching a bullet in mid-air, let alone succeed?
Dusk shook her head. "His movements were weird and uncanny. He was doing the thing you do. Countering the guy even before they started moving."
Ricochet raised his eyebrows and looked to Hornet. Hornet's eyes narrowed beneath his visor, as he reviewed the footage he recorded. Eventually, he nodded his head. "Dusk's right. He starts moving out of the way even before they try to aim at him. And he fights like he's got eyes on the back of his head."
"I can't catch a bullet in midair, you guys," Ricochet said, exasperated. He didn't want to have Prodigy place even more unreasonable expectations on him.
"We know you can't," Prodigy said flatly, in a way that probably wasn't intended to ruffle Ricochet's feathers, but Ricochet still bristled a bit regardless. Prodigy either didn't care, or more likely, didn't even notice.
Their leader continued. "He's got the same sort of sixth sense that Ricochet does. Maybe he's also a mutant?"
Of all the Slingers, Ricochet was probably the only one with powers that didn't come solely from his goofy outfit. But it was more a sore spot for him than a point of pride.
Hornet waved the thought away. "Impossible to tell. The X-Gene's a total cipher, and there's so many people getting powered up through random chemical spills or mystical crap lying around in pawn shops that we can't really tell the difference. Not without sending this guy's blood to 23andMe."
"Distant relative? Long lost twin? …Ricochet's secret actual father?" Dusk continued to speculate.
"Haha… haaa…" Ricochet laughed, and then sighed. God, he wished.
"…Sorry Johnny," Dusk said softly, realizing she went too far.
So did Prodigy, it seemed, because he didn't complain about codenames this time. Instead, he put a hand on Ricochet's shoulder.
"It's something for you to shoot for," Prodigy said, sounding weirdly paternal and empathetic instead of his usual hard-ass self. "It's something we can all aspire to, frankly. That was real. He was the real thing. Not a washed-up has-been like the Black Marvel was."
Ricochet tried not to roll his eyes. The last time Prodigy was this starry-eyed, they had a front row seat to the Avengers beating down HYDRA.
"Let's clean up and secure the suspects, I guess," Hornet said with a grin. He was looking forward to relaxing night playing janitor.
---
The Demon had heard the gunshots, of course. But he suppressed the reflexive concern for his men that came from the part of him that was Martin Li. Compassion had a time and a place, and Li also understood that tonight had neither.
Not while they were both dogs for Wilson Fisk.
He wondered, fleetingly, as to whether this attack was the tedious result of yet another vigilante, or whether New York's Kingpin finally had enough of his disrespect and petty insubordination.
Was it Yin or Yang, this time? The Demon did not know, and neither did Li. All was out of balance.
Would his vanguard be sufficient? Likely not, judging by the sounds outside. The bulk of his foot-soldiers in the warehouse took their formations and held behind cover, readying themselves for what must have been the biggest raid against them in years. More ominously, the din of battle was dying down. Things were coming to a head.
The Demon was proud of them. Though they were not one of the children of the Eighth City like he was, the Demon had imparted upon them the lessons of Son Wukong, the Handsome Monkey King. Like him, they were deemed the trash of society, and doomed from birth in Heaven's eyes. It was the Demon who had given them purpose and pride.
It was not unlike how Martin Li sought to lift up the poor and the sick, the Demon mused.
But nerves crack and bones break and men were only mortal, as one of his exhausted and bloodied Inner Demons stumbled into the warehouse. His men, while not up to the standards of any sort of proper military, continued to exercise commendable trigger discipline.
"
Perhaps it was a missed opportunity. Or perhaps his master only envied him for having escaped Hell long before he could. There was never any time to contemplate such things.
"
His men, his bitter not-quite-soldiers, let out their battle cries as they sallied forth from their prepared position. A few dozen men were positioned outside, but now he had thrice that number charge out of the building. Rested, aggressive, and ready to overwhelm a blooded enemy. While his foot-soldiers rallied at the gates, the Demon and two of his retainers made to take a different route, heading by ladder to the roof to oversee the battle.
Until they heard the laughter.
His exhausted soldier, the only one who didn't have the strength to charge behind his fellows, was laughing. It wasn't the forlorn, broken laughter of someone whose sanity had frayed. The Demon knew well enough how that kind of laughter sounded, both in the Eighth City and in New York.
This laughter was both mocking, and triumphant. The kind of laugh that only the likes of the Monkey King had ever been able to manage.
The Inner Demon raised both his hands, and silk flowed out from beneath his sleeves. Like a caterpillar forming a cocoon, he wove his strands to barricade the very door that his Inner Demons had charged out of. It seemed the Demon had been made a fool of, and the stranger continued to laugh at his expense.
The man's mirth was rightfully his, but it nonetheless rankled.
"
"Yeah, I'm sorry to say that we've just about exhausted my ability with Cantonese tonight, and I'm afraid my Mandarin isn't any better," the trickster said nonchalantly. He pulled off the opera mask of his foot soldiers, revealing a simple red hood with stark white lenses. "Still a white guy underneath the mask, I'm afraid," he continued, also shucking the cheap black suit and tie as well before revealing a simple red coat emblazoned with a black spider. "Sorry for being boring," the man added.
"Who are you?" the Demon asked again, his every word now laced with malice.
The man was only half paying attention to him. "Forgive the laughter. I honestly didn't expect that to work, and I guess I was caught a little off guard when it still did." His men outside, who by now had already realized the deception, were attempting to batter the door down. But it was heavily reinforced to begin with, and the man's absurd silk webs only exacerbated the issue. Aid would not be coming for quite some time.
"Oh, right," he said, remembering himself. "I'm Spider-Man," he muttered, groaning as he stretched.
The Demon grimaced. "…Did you make that name up just now?"
"Ouch. Honestly, I might as well just go home tonight. I thought I got you good just a second ago, but having my name mocked by someone called Mr. Negative is a new low for me," the man said with a chuckle.
"Take that one up with the Bugle," the Demon said coldly.
"Oh, I know. You prefer the Demon. When you're not going by Martin Li, at least," the stranger said airily.
The public's awareness of Martin Li's connection to Mr. Negative hovered somewhere between a hushed rumor and an open secret. But there were only a handful outside his gang who knew that his preferred name was the Demon. Most of them were dead by now, with one notable exception.
"So, you're Wilson Fisk's latest hatchet-man?" the Demon said with palpable disdain. A deranged lunatic in the vein of Bullseye could certainly cause him trouble, but even that was ultimately nothing to write home about.
He shook his head. "No, Fat Willie's on my list too. You're just a bit closer, tonight."
The Demon sneered. "So, is this a citizen's arrest, or an assassination?"
Spider-Man cracked his knuckles. "This is just a beatdown."
It was the Demon's turn to mock. "You're just going to beat me up and tell the police to put me in a cell? Are you really that naïve?"
Spider-Man shook his head, before leaping dozens of feet up into the air and alighting atop the freight container that Martin and his bodyguards were standing on.
"You're not exactly a problem I can put to bed overnight, Martin," came Spider-Man's low and dangerous voice. "I'm just here to slow you down a bit before I start dismantling your network in earnest. No need for the police just yet. But giving you a few weeks off to lick your wounds while I get to work will do us both a lot of good." This close, the Demon could tell that he was dealing with an older man, not the typical idiot teenager who treated this as a game of cops and robbers.
"Do you understand what you're meddling with?" the Demon rasped.
Spider-Man gave no more quips or jibes. "Yes," he said flatly.
As the Demon called upon his connection to the Darkforce Dimension, letting the monochrome energy surge through him, Spider-Man only raised his fists.
Chapter 5
Cassie and the others had watched everything through the small portal that she conjured.
"There's no way he's just a nobody," Ed said absently, motioning at the confused Inner Demons who were even now trying to batter their way back inside to their boss. They had no luck though: Mr. Negative always had an eye for defensible hideouts.
"His accent is authentic Queens," Johnny affirmed. "I mean, unless he's a master of illusions like Mysterio or a Foreigner level super spy. Those guys always sucked."
Cassie thought for a moment. "Then he's either a veteran from New York who flew under the radar all this time, or he's a secret agent. And both of those point to…"
Richard was the one to follow her line of reasoning the quickest. "A SHIELD spook," he spat.
"Damn," Johnny said breathlessly. "That's not much of a body count for someone with a license to kill, though."
"It's not like Captain America puts everyone in body bags either, Ricochet," Cassie chided.
Eddie shook his head. "Hold on, that's still a total shot in the dark. Even if it's true that Mr. Negative's trafficking people for experiments in a sewer somewhere… people have to pull a lot more than justinhumane experiments or murder to get the black bags and vans treatment from SHIELD. Negative's horrible, but he's still too small time to be a national security risk."
"…Fine," Richard said, taking the kind of subtly sullen tone where he felt embarrassed for jumping to conclusions. "Still, I agree. There's no way he's new to the scene. Black Marvel was either a has-been, or just never-was. This guy… this guy is good."
He turned away, his red cape swishing as he stretched his legs and arms before making his way to the edge of the rooftop.
"Hey! I thought we were taking tonight off!" Johnny said… but his pose nevertheless betrayed both tension and eagerness.
Cassie felt a bit proud of herself for being able to read the mannerisms of her team so well. Eddie was always an open book, but Johnny tended to say one thing and mean another. And Richard…
She didn't know if she still hated him. It wasn't his fault that she died. But his disregard when it happened was still callous.
If she was a ghost now, then she'd have gone all in on haunting him. As it was… he was at least trying to be better.
"We're still taking tonight off. But this is how I'm unwinding," he said. Cassie could almost hear the smile in Richard's voice.
He sometimes made jokes, or tried to. But not even Cassie could always tell.
He jumped off the roof, straight towards the confused Inner Demons. Cassie sighed.
"I'll just teleport us down and we'll hit them from the other side, okay guys?" she said, looking back at Johnny, who gave her a shrug, and Ed, who gave her a thumbs up instead.
---
The two flunkies flanking Mr. Negative went down in no time at all. A few webs, and they were hopelessly constricted. Martin Li, the Demon, was another matter entirely. Peter watched silently as his webbing simply frayed and dissolved in the wake of the Darkforce energy emanating from the man. That was what a formula that was only meant to last an hour or two would get him in the face of the Darkforce's subtle entropic emanations. He'd made so many tweaks and adjustments to his webbing over the years, to the point where he'd hit upon the perfect combination to quickly incapacitate even the Demon… but that variation wasn't something he could easily put together with a hodgepodge of chemicals at a homeless shelter.
You get what you paid for, and in this case, he'd spent nothing. He'd always planned to deal with Mr. Negative hand to hand tonight anyways. Peter owed the Demon for more than a few of his early gray hairs, as he took his stance and ducked a clawing strike from Li that could have torn out his throat.
Shang-Chi once told him that the most important thing in combat was mastery of the basics. Iron Fist later affirmed this, albeit in a much more gruff and frosty manner, which he affected whenever Shang-Chi was involved. Whatever your style, the basic movements had to be polished to perfection. Drill and drill again, while you honed your body to be the perfect vehicle to express your preferred form of combat. And that was Martin Li, who had taken hold of the fundamentals of Tai Chi and honed them into a lethal edge. And that was before the Darkforce gave him enough strength to level a building and enough speed to dodge bullets.
But Peter had something going for him that Martin didn't.
He'd fought with the Demon dozens of times in the past. But now, the Demon had no experience fighting him. And while the world he remembered had changed dramatically, Martin Li remained largely the same. He might have felt a bit grateful for that. Out of all the people who tried to kill him over the years, he still hated the Demon the least.
He was testing that though, as he narrowly dodged a swift kick from the Demon that could have shattered his skull. But narrow misses may as well be a mile, for all that he was now long used to avoiding excessive acrobatics to not tire himself out too early.
That life lesson came from Iron Fist, and then it was Shang-Chi's turn to sulk about not getting to point it out first.
What Peter used was a bastard child of a style, according to Iron Fist, who was a firm believer in precision and orthodoxy. Shang-Chi, who first helped him improvise the principles, shrugged and said that he needed to do whatever worked. A personal style, adapted for his body and his power-set… which turned out to be broader than he intended, what with the clones and then the children.
Way of the Spider, Shang-Chi said with a shrug. Iron Fist advised that he quietly call it Parker Family Boxing and leave it at that. Either way, the idea was simple. What began as a random series of acrobatics that he'd improvised over the years were honed and focused… and then, much like Martin Li with his Tai Chi, it was perfected.
Fight as if you had eight limbs, and not four.
'It must be a frustrating experience for Martin,' Peter's thoughts mused. They'd fought each other a great deal now, probably far too long. Peter could read the Demon's movements like a book, knowing precisely how to dodge… and when to counter, as his right hand snaked out and boxed the Demon on his left ear, leaving it deafened and ringing.
"Bajiquan?" the Demon growled out incredulously as he stepped back, clutching his ear.
Peter shrugged. There was only a smattering of it in there. Bafaquan and Baguazhang too, or so he'd been told. Another of Shang-Chi's little jokes, where he worked a few bad puns into Peter's fighting style. It suited him.
"I'm still Spider-Man, right? Eight is my lucky number!" Peter crowed, trying to provoke him into another slip.
A mistake, he quickly realized. Pushing him into sloppiness just made him harder to read as easily, as Martin unleashed a dizzying series of fist strikes… before Peter, trying to keep up with every blow, left himself open to a roundhouse kick that struck his left eye, striking with such force as to leave it blinded, possibly permanently if he'd been a normal human being. It was the kind of cheap shot that wasn't part of the standard movements that Martin Li preferred.
It was good though, and Peter made a note to practice that one himself.
That said, the Demon's starkly monochrome face showed no hint of satisfaction. "You're holding back," he accused.
Peter grimaced, before lifting the mouth of his mask to spit out a bit of blood. He was holding back. Rather than box the man's ear, Peter's punch could have ended things right there, and likely would have killed the man outright. But he wasn't so far gone as to accept that.
'Stop playing the martyr. You still could've ended this on your own terms too,' a dark voice, his own voice, chided him.
And it was true. He was still choosing to fight with one hand tied behind his back. He'd engaged the Demon in the skillset that he was the strongest in, on his terms. He played fair, and willingly suppressed his Spider-Senses. He'd pulled his punches. He tightened his stance rather than loosen it, impairing his agility. All with the goal in mind of turning this into a contest of skill and willpower, rather than one of strength and speed. Because he wanted to test himself.
"I made my choice. You're not the type to hesitate over something like that," Peter said flatly. He considered for a moment, using the lull in their brawl to think on things. Preying on the people who relied on FEAST was a new low for Li, something that he'd simply never sunk to in their original history. The Demon was always fastidious, and his skewed moral principles meant that he would never permit Yin to mix with Yang. Both of Mr. Negative's personalities maintained that Martin's business and the Demon's business were separate matters, even though one always fed into the other.
"You're off balance," Peter murmured in realization. The Demon paused, his eyes widening.
"Don't act as if you know me, vigilante," Martin growled.
"I do know you," Peter mocked. "The scary thing about masks is that anyone could be under them. I'm someone who's known you for years." The conviction in his voice didn't waver, throwing Martin further off his game. It was, as Peter reckoned it, completely true.
"You remember that veneer of principles you used to have? The one that justified everything you did, no matter how ugly or gruesome? You lost it. You did something that you used to think you were too honorable for, and you failed yourself." Peter continued, his voice as cold as ice. He meant every word.
He always hated Martin Li the least. But things had changed compared to the good old days.
The Demon snapped. His loss of composure was first seen in how his eyes widened, and then echoed again in the way he began to use his fists. Whereas before he'd merely been unorthodox, now the Demon was running utterly wild. The Darkforce now emanated from him, like trails of flame. He screamed something in Cantonese, beyond Peter's limited ability to catch.
He got the gist though.
Blast after blast of dark energy came crashing out from Mr. Negative's hands. The warehouse, the Demon's improvised fortress, was cracking under the strain. If anything, Peter found the petulant display of power easier to deal with than the Demon's disciplined Tai Chi. He barely needed his Spider-Senses, or else he was so used to following along with them that they became background noise. The warehouse's shipping containers were casually scattered in the wake of Martin's emotional catharsis, flung up into the air through sheer force before crashing down. He swung, dodged, and flipped between them as they were flung about, his body largely working on autopilot. There wasn't any further need for any jibes or taunts, and he remained silent while waiting for the Demon's reserves of energy to slowly be drained away.
The first cut that he made was already deep enough. The man continued to rant in indecipherable Cantonese, but Peter was still able to pick up on more than a few common expletives.
'Wrap it up. Put a bow on it before he buries you with him.'
With how much Darkforce energy the Demon was calling on now, Peter was confident that Martin's batteries would be running dry for at least a few weeks. It also meant that the Demon's strength and durability were now currently enhanced to a truly terrifying degree. This suited Peter just fine.
It meant he could do this next thing and not worry that he'd break Martin's neck.
Peter had maneuvered himself to the opposite side of the warehouse, perpendicular to the ground and his shoulders grazing up against the building's roof. Like a coiled spring, he tensed, feeling the tension and strain through his legs and back. The ache in his limbs were a familiar and welcome feeling. An old friend. The Demon glared at him from below and made ready to channel another massive blast through his hands.
'Too slow, Martin.'
Before Mr. Negative could even unleash his blast, Spider-Man's muscles simply uncoiled. In the time it took the Demon to blink, Peter had closed the gap, and slammed into the man's skull with his knee. If Martin hadn't been angry enough to drown himself in Darkforce energy, the blow would likely have killed him. As it is, he would have a concussion on top of everything else.
The Demon was rolling on the ground at Spider-Man's feet, clutching his head while his enemy looked down at him sternly. Even then, Martin was still channeling the flickering embers of the Darkforce energy that he held in reserve, trying in vain to maintain his form as the Demon even as he repeatedly faded back into a thoroughly bruised and battered Martin Li. All the while, he tried reach his hands out to Peter, and wring his neck.
His hands.
Peter had resisted Martin Li's corruptive touch before. Most people, even some truly great people that Peter knew over the years, had a hard time against Mr. Negative's powers. Confronted with the darkest parts of themselves, their subconscious fears and resentments, very few people could resist falling under Mr. Negative's spell. They'd turn, briefly becoming his unquestioning pawns, and it could take time before they found their way back to themselves. But they always did, eventually.
He looked at those hands, and wondered if he still had it in him. He'd lost everything, at this point. His wife. His children. Himself. Everyone who knew him was gone, and familiar strangers now filled the places that they left behind.
It wasn't worse than the hell he'd left behind. But it wasn't much of an improvement.
It wasn't a death wish, he reassured himself. But in the old days he'd never have exposed himself to the senseless risks of catching a bullet in mid-air, or deliberately fight Mr. Negative on his terms.
Not while he still had people to live for.
It seemed that he was free. And the decision he made was logical, if brutal on himself. Just being at his best wouldn't cut it anymore. He had to be better than he'd ever been before. And if there were cracks in his armor, if there was an opening for Martin Li to find… then it was already hopeless. He had to take the challenges that were offered and push himself harder than ever before.
'Corner yourself, again. Put your back against the wall. That's where you always did your best work.'
"Do or die," he muttered, as he lifted Mr. Negative back on his feet, letting him lean against a cargo container.
The Demon was already fading, and Martin Li looked at him with exhausted eyes. "What are you doing?" he croaked.
Peter shook the man's hand.
---
Peter thought he might have been here before, at least a couple of times over the course of his life. Given how often Martin's corrupting touch kept on failing to twist him, Mr. Negative eventually gave up on attempting that trick on Peter.
He wasn't sure what this place really was, mind you. It was an immaculate and depthless sort of blackness. A void that was far darker than the night sky, or from behind his closed eyelids. Was it the Darkforce dimension? Was it his mind? Was it Martin Li's mind?
All he knew was that Martin didn't know either. But eventually, in that darkness, shapes began to form. Much like how the Demon himself appeared when he channeled the Darkforce, it was like looking at a negative of a photograph. But he recognized it all the same. How could he not, after all this time?
He saw their bodies first, a familiar enough sight in his nightmares. It wasn't just the photo negatives of Mary Jane, or Mayday, or Annie, or Little Ben that were staring up at him with hurt and betrayal in their eyes. There was Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Teresa, his sister, a stranger long estranged. Their parents might have been there too, if only he could remember them. Ben and Kaine, his brothers, simply for lack of any better term. Gwen Stacy, Harry Osborn, Felicia Hardy, Jean DeWolff, Ned Leeds. Flash Thompson and Eddie Brock. Even Otto Octavius, long since reconciled with him, and now long since dead. The list went on and on, and on. He felt tired.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "I know I couldn't do anything. But in the end, nobody could have. People far stronger and far better than me couldn't save the world either. I'll try again, of course. I'm grateful for the opportunity to try again, it's more than what most people would get. I'm guessing that it's beyond Martin Li to conjure up all nine billion people I let down. But my answer is the same."
He wasn't a boy of fifteen anymore. People always assumed that he did everything out of guilt, or that he was some sort of martyr who had a savior complex. He looked at his Uncle, one more time, who was exactly as Peter remembered him despite the color inversion.
"I don't do this because I want to punish myself for not being there for you. Or that I think doing this somehow absolves me of everything that happened." He looked out, surveying the dead. "Nobody can take back what's done."
"I'm doing this because I have a responsibility. Because the universe doesn't care that bad things happen to good people. People care. It's on all of us to make sure that there's some sort of justice in all of this." He was talking to himself now, even more than he was talking to the dead. "I'm just a bit stronger, and I can do a bit more than most. And I think that was all that Ben was trying to teach me."
The dead couldn't answer him. They never could, of course. But it seemed that, if nothing else, he was able to face himself. One by one they faded, from the background to the foreground. He was just left with Mary Jane. The negative of an old photograph that was far, far too precious for him to ever throw away.
She held out her hand to him, as if pleading for him to take it. And he would never allow himself to refuse her. Not in his head, nor in his heart.
He clasped her hand gently, and they walked further into the dark.
---
Peter had been here before, though he had no idea where it was. He dreamt of it sometimes. A longing that he'd kept on trying to suppress. It was a thought he'd refused to dwell upon.
"I missed you, Tiger," his wife said, as she leaned against his chest with a contented sigh. Her hair was a brilliant red, her eyes were emeralds, and she looked content and at peace. They sat atop a hill, verdant and grassy, a vibrant green against a sun that was either just starting to set or just beginning to rise. Down there, in a park at the foot of the hill, their three children played, heedless of everything.
The colors told him that this wasn't just another one of the Demon's mental constructs. "Well, of course, silly" Mary Jane chided. "We're in your head now. Is there any place in your head where your family would ever resent you, or try to hurt you somehow?"
He blinked, feeling his chest tighten. No, there really wasn't.
"Mhm," she said, nodding her head with a soft smile. "You need to be reminded of that sometimes. But deep down you'd always have known that we'd be grateful that you lived, at least. That the only thing," she said, now shuddering, "the only thing that would have me worry is how much hurt you'd carry over it. And how lonely you'd be."
He smiled softly down at her and wiped her tears away. They stopped, and she smiled back. "But you're strong, Tiger."
"I don't know about that," he said, absently. "I think I'm at the end of my rope now. This… may really be it." He looked down the hill, and the two of them watched their children shout and laugh.
She shook her head. "You've been there before, lots of times. When Ben died. When Gwen died. And you've pulled yourself out of there, every time. You've endured so much, already. Grief isn't a stranger to you, and you're already starting to make peace."
He confessed something to her, or maybe to himself. "I played fast and loose with my life today. More than I ever dared to do in the past. Even when things were at their worst, I still had somebody."
"You still have somebody. You know that I'm out there," she said softly. Like a whispered confession.
"No," he said, as he felt his eyes water. As he finally let himself break, just a little. Just for a moment. "I'm not replacing you. I'm never replacing any of you."
It was her turn to dry his tears. "I'm not the only one. You want to see them again. All of them. It was me and you and Harry and Gwen in those days. You remember. You could never forget."
"I can't see them," he pleaded.
She hugged him tighter. "On your own terms. When you're ready. And you're already kind to Gayle's daughter. Because if you had the choice, you'd be kind to everyone."
He held her hand in his, as she continued. "You need other people. You can't survive so much hurt without them." She looked at him with pride in her bright green eyes. "But even after just one day, you've already made so much progress. Anna is there, and Gayle's Annie. You've already let them in, because you couldn't do otherwise. And they need you too. The city needs you. And now, the world needs you."
She continued, her voice containing all the kindness in the world. "When you're ready, you'll move on. But I'm dead, Peter. We all are. Which means we'll always be here for you. Our memories are there for you, whenever you need them. So look at these photographs of us whenever you need, and don't feel ashamed for putting them aside. You would never resent me for moving on and making peace. Do you think I'd be any different?" she said, her voice chiding. But her expression was forgiving.
"I know," Peter whispered.
She cradled his face. "Yes, you always know. Maybe it's strength now, or it's just indifference. But you've already been through so much already. Now, you can endure anything. You know you can lose everything and still be yourself."
"Thank you. For everything, after all these years," he said, holding her tighter.
She sank back into his embrace, accepting everything. "But promise me, Tiger. Promise me you'll at least look after Harry. Because even if he's a stranger now, and not your oldest friend, you know that his father is making him suffer. And that will always be something you want to put right, no matter how much things change."
"I promise," he said with a nod. It was an oath, either to her, or to his old friend, or just the voices in his own head. But an adult stood by their commitments.
"So, with that done… want to see something really interesting, Tiger?" she said, her expression both dazzling and mischievous, as blackness flowed in again.
---
Peter knew where he was, even though he'd never been here before. But he had no idea how he'd managed to get here, precisely. A thought, a scream, echoed in the blackness. "I AM A CHILD OF THE EIGHTH CITY," the Demon's voice roared out.
Somehow, he was in Martin Li's head.
Perhaps, his spirit was more resilient than he'd given himself credit for. Shrugging off Martin's corrupting touch was easier for him now, even though he'd have expected his grief to make it harder. And perhaps, in this timeline, Martin's own will and sense of self was somehow more brittle. But the tables, somehow, had been turned.
"Let's see, then…" Peter said, as he walked through the dark.
He heard voices, echoing in Cantonese. But somehow, he could now understand them perfectly. Because this was Martin Li's head, and not his own.
He heard a voice, old and grizzled and reedy. And Martin's heart thrummed with both longing and sorrow.
"Kid," the voice intoned, gentle and grandfatherly, "the facts of life are not so good down here. This isn't the whole world. This is just Hell, the Eighth City. If I had my way, you'd be learning about life somewhere else. Somewhere kinder."
Peter listened, attentive. He'd heard about the Eighth City from Iron Fist. A prison for the worst sorts of monsters… and a dumping ground of the most unfortunate people. Everyone, and everything, that ended up angering the Seven Capital Cities of Heaven were exiled to the Eighth City.
And those who were born inside the Eighth City fared no better. It was something that Daniel Rand spoke about bitterly, at times. He was champion of the city of K'un-Lun, but Danny would say that his relationship to the city was sometimes fraught, and even perilous.
"It's all karma, kid. What goes around, comes around. The fact is, if you want to survive down here, you'll have to take from others. You'll have to hurt others. More for you means less for everyone else. And that goes for the people you care about too. If you want to do good for your people, you'll have to be vicious, and even cruel, to get them what they need. It all balances out in the Eighth City. It's all a big flow. Everything good will turn into bad. And everything bad turns into good." He could hear the voice soften, and become a bit gentler, "It takes a clever kid to use that ebb and flow for themselves. Keep the good flowing to you and yours, and let the bad slip by and go to someone else."
He kept walking, the darkness growing deeper. Another voice echoed. A man's voice.
"I grew up in poverty," the voice intoned. It was Martin's voice, not the Demon's. And it spoke in English instead of Cantonese. "I grew up in circumstances that I would not wish on any child, on any person, fighting for my life in the gutters. And I see that echoed everywhere I go. It is Hell, gentlemen and ladies. I saw it in China and Hong Kong. I see it here in America. What we are seeing is a humanitarian crisis, not in the Third World but in our backyards. One that is growing worse rather than better and will continue to worsen in the wake of major disasters and social upheaval brought about by emerging pandemics, preternatural events, alien disasters, and supernatural calamity. My intent for FEAST is that—"
A second voice interrupted Martin's, one that exuded skepticism and indifference, "Your intentions for FEAST are clear, and admirable, Mr. Li. But the truth of the matter is that for all the emergent horrors and miracles in the world today, we live in a world constrained by the fact that resources remain finite and limited. The city is already over its budget. We cannot give you what you need for this project. Not without taking from another area that is central to the city's infrastructure and undermining the promises made during my campaign. So that will be all, I'm afraid." And with those words, Martin's indomitable heart broke.
Then it was the Demon's voice that whispered, in quiet thoughts rather than a loud speech, and in Cantonese again instead of English. And despair screamed inside of his heart. "It was then that I again remembered the lessons of Son Wukong. And that the rules of the Eighth City were just as true there as they were anywhere else in the world. So couldn't I take what I learned in the Eighth City and pass it on to New York? My Ninth City."
Peter trembled, starting to understand Martin a bit better. And again affirmed that of all his many enemies, he still hated him the least.
He recognized the next voice as he pressed on, the darkness only thickening. His fist clenched reflexively in response to Wilson Fisk's voice. "You've had a rather successful career, playing Robin Hood. Though yours was far less romantic. Tell me, do you think they'd be so grateful for your philanthropy once they knew where the money was coming from? Drugs. Human trafficking."
Martin's voice was icy, and tense… and defeated. "It's simple economics. I take with one hand, and I give with another."
The Kingpin laughed, and Peter bristled further. "Then you should be grateful that you're in the hands of an even savvier businessman. Your status as Don Manfredi's science experiment appeals to me. From now on, like everything else Silvio Manfredi helped make, Mr. Negative and FEAST belong to me."
Now Peter understood. Now he knew why Martin had crossed a line that he'd never have permitted in the old days, and why he betrayed the people he genuinely wanted to help.
The Kingpin was stronger and even more entrenched, this time around. Before, the Demon wasted no time in getting out from under Silvermane's thumb after he got his connection to the Darkforce and was able to set himself up as a third power in Chinatown between Manfredi and Fisk. But now? It seemed that Fisk had simply crushed Silvio Manfredi and turned Mr. Negative into an underling.
He refused to accept this. He needed to find Martin. He needed to talk to him, needed to-
---
-to breathe. Peter found himself back in the warehouse, as apparently his desire to speak to Martin was enough to leave the man's mind. He looked down at him, all the Darkforce energy finally faded. There was only Martin Li, New York's gentlest philanthropist. Heavily bruised and battered, unfortunately.
As the man regained consciousness, Peter simply pulled off his mask. He was nobody now, not even Peter Parker. He had nothing to lose by doing this, and he wanted his old enemy to see him eye to eye.
"I was… I was in your head," Martin Li mumbled incredulously. "Your name is… Peter?"
"I was in yours too, Martin," Peter said.
Martin shook his head. "I don't totally understand how these powers work. But that has never happened before. I don't usually… get sucked in like that, we'll say."
"I know," Peter said flatly.
"I didn't see much, if that worries you. Your uncle was shot. Your wife and children perished. It was sad," he sighed. It seemed that with the Demon beaten back, Martin Li was just a bit more kind.
"We need to talk," Peter said.
"Not now. More of my men will come to rescue me, and try to kill you for all this. We'll talk in the afternoon. You know… where to find me," he said, clutching his head with a slight groan, and a rueful smile.
By now his webs had dissolved, and after all the damage to the warehouse, he could see that most of the Inner Demons that Li sent out had been laid low by now. He remembered passing by a few kids in costumes, the ones he vaguely recalled were the Slingers, on the way to the warehouse. Either they were scoping out the place before he jumped in, or else they simply saw a target of opportunity. They did good work, at least, given that close to a hundred Inner Demons were incapacitated and nobody was killed.
He heard police sirens in the distance though, and faintly thought he had to take a few points off the kids for their naivete. Calling up NYPD to lock up the bad guys after a brawl was only a thing that happened in movies. Nothing would stick, and they'd all be out on the streets inside of a week. There were close to a hundred men here, too much for the justice system to reasonably process all at once. Not to mention claims of frame-ups and planted evidence by thrill-seeking vigilantes, something that caused people in his line of work no end of headaches.
Peter sighed, and so did Martin Li. He grimaced, but it was more the response of a man who'd be sorely inconvenienced, rather than someone who thought he was going to jail for the rest of his life.
"We'll talk in the evening instead," Martin Li decided. "Sorry about that," he added, as if he were the one responsible for the cops coming.
Peter nodded and left quietly. He was just as likely to end up in lockup as Li.
He left in silence as he swung high into the city. And he thought, one more time, about his wife and their children.
But this was the first time that it wasn't tainted by regret.
---
"Thank you, Ricochet!" an old woman said, as Peter handed her purse back.
"You're wel— wait, it's Spider-Man," Peter said after a double take.
"I've never heard of Spider-Man! You don't look very much like a spider, dear!" she said, trying to adjust her glasses. "Oh, I see it!" she said, pointing excitedly to the spider symbol on his coat. "Could stand to be a bit bigger. Frankly your outfit just doesn't scream 'spider' to me. Have you tried spandex? Maybe putting on a web design for your mask?"
"Just have a good night, ma'am," Peter said tightly.
---
"Good work, Ricochet," the paramedic said, gingerly taking the old man and putting him on a gurney. "Get the oxygen tank, he inhaled a lot of smoke," he added, talking to a fellow medic.
"Thank you, but, I'm Spider-Man," Peter said absently. If nothing else, Ricochet was popular.
"Yeah, okay, that's good," said the paramedic, too busy to hear Peter.
Peter wasn't entirely sure whether this moment was more funny or sad.
---
"Thanks Ricochet," a young man, just out of his teens, said after the mugging was halted.
"Be sure to call the cops, but don't mention anything about a superhero getting involved," Peter said plainly, as the young man nodded his head. It was easier to put someone away for a completely mundane failed mugging than it was for a mugging stopped by a vigilante.
"And I'm Iron Man, actually. Thanks," Peter said, leaving the young man thoroughly confused.
---
"I never thought I'd see her again," the woman said, clutching her dog. "Thank you Ricochet."
"Nay, good woman. I am Thor, son of Asgard."
"Huh?"
"Bad joke, but I'm rolling with it," Peter said, after webbing away.
---
"Who are you?" said the terrified man with the crowbar, after seeing his two friends casually webbed up against the store's roof.
Peter picked up the man by his collar and glared into his eyes. That crowbar fell limply from his hands as he quavered in terror.
"I'm Batman," Peter said, doing his best impression of Christian Bale.