On a Manhattan street corner, a little girl sat on the ground, bawling.
It was early August—not sweltering—but her forehead was beaded with sweat, and the mix of tears and sweat had smeared her small face grubby.
Creak—
A black sedan pulled up beside her. When the man in the back seat climbed out, the whole car rose a couple of inches.
She noticed a shadow fall over her and looked up to see a tall, heavy, bald man in an oversized white suit.
"Little one, what happened? Why are you crying so hard?" he asked, his gentle voice at odds with his size.
"I got separated from my dad," the girl said, eyeing the hulking man nervously.
"My name is Wilson Fisk. You can call me Wilson. What's your name?"
Fisk—Kingpin—kept his tone mild and handed her a handkerchief from his suit pocket.
"I'm Maddie, Mr. Wilson." She took it. "Thank you."
"You lost your father… Do you remember his phone number?" Fisk crouched to meet her eyes.
Maddie looked embarrassed. "We don't have a phone."
"Then he's surely searching everywhere for you," Fisk said, offering a huge hand. "I stand out in a crowd. Sit on my shoulders so your father can spot you from far away."
"But…" She hesitated; his size was frightening, almost monstrous.
"Don't be afraid, child," Fisk said. A murmur rose from passersby. He glanced up and pointed to a red-and-blue figure swinging between buildings. "See? New York has Spider-Man. No one will dare hurt you."
Maybe it was Spider-Man's appearance, maybe Fisk's steady gentleness, but Maddie relaxed and carefully perched on his shoulders.
Fisk rose, one hand steadying her so she wouldn't fall, and with the other dialed a number. "Mr. Osborn, you'll want to turn on the news… Spider-Man is heading toward Central Park."
He hung up before Norman Osborn could reply.
Not far away, a thin, disheveled man with red-rimmed eyes was frantically searching. Maddie spotted him too and started waving. "Dad! Dad!"
The man stared, startled to see his daughter sitting on the shoulders of someone whose arm was nearly as thick as his torso, but he forced himself to approach. "Uh… sir, could you put my daughter down?"
Fisk lifted Maddie down with both hands. She squealed and threw herself into her father's arms.
"Even with a hero like Spider-Man watching over New York, losing your daughter isn't something a competent father does," Fisk said, gentle but edged with reproach.
"I'm sorry—thank you, sir," the man blurted. "I zoned out, and when I came to, she was gone. If not for you… I'll never forgive myself."
Fisk patted his shoulder. "I'm Wilson Fisk. If you need a well-paid job, come find me in Hell's Kitchen."
He opened the sedan door and got in; the car sagged noticeably under his weight.
"Daddy, I just saw Spider-Man," Maddie said, looking up.
Her father ruffled her hair without answering, watching Fisk's car disappear at the end of the street.
High over Manhattan, Batman forced down his discomfort as he performed a series of elaborate aerial moves. In Gotham, wearing the Batsuit and using a grapnel, he prized efficiency and never wasted motion. Now he was copying Nightwing's acrobatics, doing everything he could to look like a real "Spider-Man."
He wasn't in his stealth suit but in Peter Parker's stashed red-and-blue costume, flaunting himself to draw attention.
He wasn't showing off—he needed to be seen.
He was baiting Norman Osborn's Spider-Slayer.
Rather than let a Spider-Slayer rampage at some random time and force him to don the suit on the fly, Batman chose to strike first. He picked the deep interior of Central Park for the fight to minimize risk to bystanders.
—And because it was Saturday and the park would usually be crowded, he'd hacked the city system that morning and posted a fake notice:
Central Park closed for one day.
The government quickly debunked it, but it still worked—there were even fewer visitors than on a weekday.
Thwip!
A white strand—kept for daytime ops—shot out. Batman yanked and slingshotted forward.
"Spider-Man!"
At the park entrance, a crowd raised their phones and sprinted after him.
Boom!
A micro-missile streaked in from afar and detonated in front of him. The red-and-blue figure tumbled from the air.
A silver-gray armored figure on a glider—Spider-Slayer—dropped out of the sky and began pounding the spot where "Spider-Man" had fallen.
With its sharp, menacing lines, the armor looked less human than some terrifying insect. Most people share an innate fear of bugs—especially flying ones. The crowd that had cheered for Spider-Man broke and ran.
In the park, Batman—wearing the Spider-Man suit—staggered deeper among the trees, the Spider-Slayer hounding him from above. Another missile roared out; dust boiled up; a swath of earth blew open, and "Spider-Man" was blasted away like a kite with a cut string, crashing down and lying motionless.
A setup?
The Spider-Slayer eyed the half-buried "Spider-Man." Oscorp's profile said the target's physique, strength, and agility far exceeded normal. A few micro-missiles shouldn't have finished him.
"Mr. Osborn wants him alive. Whatever game he's playing, I'll tread carefully… but this armor was built to counter Spider-Man. Even up close, I shouldn't lose."
He pressed a control; two pairs of short forearm-length claws snapped out from his armpits, each tipped with a dagger point. Narrow arm-blades slid out along his own forearms. He crept toward the figure in the dirt.
Behind him, Batman—already out of the Spider-Man suit and having stuffed it with gel bombs—quietly pressed a button.
He'd drafted six contingencies for the Spider-Slayer. This was Plan C.
~~~
Patreon(.)com/Bleam
— Currently You can Read 50 Chapters Ahead of Others!