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[b]M I D T O W N,   Q U E E N S
0 3 : 1 2  P M[/b]

All the Ringer wanted was to rob something.

He’d been trying to find an opportunity to prove himself for months. The Rogues weren’t easy people to impress, but after weeks upon weeks of planning and scheming, he’d finally stumbled upon the perfect heist; the perfect job to put him on their radar.

He was going to rob a bank.

It was pretty simple on paper. He would walk into Midtown Savings Bank with two henchmen, demand that they give him money, then walk out of there with bags full of dough. It was simple, fool-proof, and easy to pull off... but of course, even the best plans have their flaws.

Turns out that someone had called the police on him. When Ringer had triumphantly walked out of the bank, henchmen in tow, he was met by a barricade of police cruisers, behind them a dozen or so officers with their weapons trained on him. 

“Hey, Anthony,” whined Doug, the more competent of his two employees, “I don’t think this looks too good, man.”

The Ringer fought back the urge to sigh, opting to shoot a gigantic, silver ring, his trademark and namesake, at a nearby cop. The cop leapt out of the way, the ring wrapping itself around a lamppost. “Stop, or we [i]will[/i] shoot,” warned another man in blue. The Ringer believed him, and told Doug to shut up.

And then [i]he[/i] arrived.

“Yeah, Tony,” said Spider-Man, flipping from the bank’s roof to land in a crouch in front of the Ringer. “This actually looks kinda crummy.”

“Oh, god,” said Anthony, “It’s you.”

“Surprise!” exclaimed the wall-crawler, launching off the ground to plant a swift kick beneath his chin. The Ringer collapsed onto the ground, dazed. His vision swam. Doug and the other henchman just stared, unsure of what to do. “Oh, hey guys,” said Spidey. “Sup.” They waved. 

“FREEZE!” yelled one of the police officers. “PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD AND GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES!”

“Sorry, dude. I don’t swing that way,” quipped Spider-Man, leaping over the Ringer’s near-unconscious form to punch his henchmen in the jaw. They joined him on the ground. Useless. 

The cop fired at Spider-Man, bullet whizzing past his shoulder as he dodged it just a split second before it made contact. “Hey! That was rude. Can you believe these guys, Tony?” 

“I hate you,” the Ringer managed, before slipping into the comforting arms of unconsciousness. Something told him he wouldn't be teaming with the Rogues any time soon.

[hr]
[b]S O M E W H E R E   I N   N E W   Y O R K   C I T Y
0 7 : 3 0  P M[/b]

Aaron Davis stared at the television screen with dangerous eyes. Dangerous, because they spoke of a coldness, a calculating anger not seen in many men. Dangerous, because they were directed at his nephew, jumping and quipping his way through footage on Channel 52 as Bethany Snow filled America in on his latest victory over yet another common criminal. It disgusted him. To see such potential and power get wasted on these lowlifes with even lower ambitions made Aaron sick to the stomach. It twisted it into such a festering pile of frustration and rage that it was all he could do not to seek Miles out and beat some sense into him. But a deep breath and a comforting cup of scotch reminded him that he couldn’t do that. Not yet. Didn’t he remember what happened the last time he tried to do that? [i]And anyway,[/i] he told himself, [i]Gotta keep my eyes on the bigger picture.[/i]

Because in a few short, short days, he would be making his move. No one will see it coming. Not the police. Not Miles, or the other Spider-Man. Not Daredevil. Not the Justice League. No one. 

In a few short, short days, Brooklyn and Dakota would no longer know Tombstone’s name. They would know his.

They would know the Prowler.