.2-Weeks-Later-Brooklyn – Afternoon.
The sidewalks were crowded with food carts and kids on bikes. Richard Parker walked a slow beat along the curb, NYPD jacket zipped up but his badge tucked away. Beside him, 13-year-old Jefferson Davis kept pace, clutching a folded newspaper like it was evidence.
Jefferson held it up, the headline glaring: "BLACK-SUITED VIGILANTE TERRORIZES MAFIA".
Jefferson: I dunno, dude… this man is creepy as hell?!
Richard snorted, half a laugh escaping.
Richard: Creepy like what? Like Batman?
Jefferson blinked.
Jefferson: Wait! Batman is real?
Richard gave him a sideways glance, smirking.
Richard: Yeah, Batman's real. Unicorns are real. For all I know some fictional characters exist, like Barbie.
Jefferson frowned, waving the paper.
Jefferson: I mean, dude, this isn't real. What do you think?
Richard's eyes went to the headline for a second longer than he meant to.
Richard: I mean… I don't know if that's the case. We've got rules against vigilantes, after all, kid…
Jefferson studied him closely now, eyes narrowing.
Jefferson: Uhhh, Richard?
Richard: Yeah?
Jefferson: Have you been… working out?
Richard chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
Richard: Maybe… maybe a little.
Later at night blanketed Brooklyn, the streetlamps flickering below. On the roof of an old apartment building, Richard Parker crouched in his new black suit. The material clung to his frame like liquid shadow, the faint glow of his mask's lenses the only light on his face.
Down in the alley, a yellow school bus lay half-tilted, stuck between a dumpster and a brick wall. Richard dropped from the roof, landing with a "heavy thud". He slid his hands under the front bumper, exhaled once, and lifted. The whole bus rose slowly, metal groaning as it left the ground.
Richard (thoughts): After the bite… everything changed. I'm powerful now. Super strong. Strong enough to do this.
He hefted the bus higher, setting it back onto its wheels like it weighed nothing.
Richard (thoughts): I need to eat, like, eleven thousand calories for no reason just to keep up.
He turned to the nearby wall, drew his fist back, and slammed it into the bricks. The wall cracked like dry earth, dust drifting in the cool air.
Richard (thoughts): My punch can break a wall. How strong am I? I can take a beating. A serious beating.
He launched a webline to the top of a water tower, trying to swing.
Richard (groaning): But I do have one problem…
The line snapped taut and instead of landing cleanly he crashed awkwardly into the tower's side, making it shudder.
He scrambled up onto the edge of the tank, catching his breath.
Richard (thoughts): After two weeks of practice I'm still not great at swinging at all! Maybe my agility will come in handy. My reaction time and awareness is good but...
Suddenly his hand went to his head. A sharp, pulsing pain. He staggered, crouching low.
Richard: This is the first time having a damn headache!?
The city stretched out below him, neon and streetlight bleeding together, while above, the stars shimmered over the new vigilante still figuring out his limits.
Inside City Hall, the dim light of the mayor's office cast long shadows across the room. George Stacy stepped in, uniform sharp, posture straight. He raised a crisp salute.
George: Mayor Rodriguez, what can I do for you?
The leather chair behind the oak desk slowly turned. Anton Miguel Rodriguez, the Mayor of New York, leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced together. His eyes carried a glint part authority, part menace.
Anton: Captain Stacy… do you know why I called you here?
George's expression hardened, his jaw tightening.
George: I know, Mayor Rodriguez. You want this vigilante arrested.
Anton chuckled, shaking his head.
Anton: No, no, no… you've got it all wrong.
He leaned back, smiling faintly, though his tone carried weight.
Anton: I don't want him in chains. I want this… black vigilante to play his game.
George frowned, the seriousness in his eyes sharpening.
George: What do you mean by that?
Anton stood, walking slowly to the tall windows overlooking the city, his hands clasped behind his back.
Anton: I want the people of New York to see what kind of man this vigilante turns out to be. A friend… or a foe.
His voice dropped lower, darker, as he turned his head slightly, his face half-hidden in shadow.
Anton: I… want… you… to recruit that vigilante for me. Do you understand, Captain?
The last words slithered through the room, heavy and commanding.
George's face stayed stern. He gave a single, measured nod.
George: Understood...
George stood rigidly in front of the desk, but before he could open his mouth Anton raised a finger.
Anton: And no but, Captain.
George's lips pressed into a thin line as Anton's voice sharpened, echoing in the paneled room.
Anton: After all, that vigilante beat the living hell out of the mafia even sent them to the hospital. So… I think I've got something to convince him. At all cost.
Anton leaned forward, palms flat on the desk.
Anton: But if you fail… not only will you lose your job, Captain Stacy… you'll lose your life.
The words hung in the air like a knife. George's eyes flickered, his composure cracking just enough for him to speak.
George: …What if he fights back?
Anton's smirk crept across his face like a shadow.
Anton: No person dares to fight with me just like my friend Deathstroke...
He straightened his tie, the gleam in his eye making the threat sound less like arrogance and more like a promise. George stood there, silent, the weight of the mayor's order pressing down on him.