[CENTER][img]https://i.imgur.com/rMyTSjk.png[/img][/CENTER][indent][sub][COLOR=#FF0000][B]Location:[/B][/COLOR] [color=white][I]Manhattan[/I] - [I]New York[/I][/color][/sub][sup][right][COLOR=#FF0000][b]#1.01:[/b][/COLOR] [I][color=white]Charity Case[/color][/I][/right][/sup][/indent][COLOR=dimgray][SUP][sub]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sub][/SUP][/COLOR] [indent][color=gray][i]Launch - grip - swing - release. Launch - grip - swing - release. Launch - grip - swing - release.[/i] [i]Feel the air whipping past your skin; the whooshing of wind in your ears is almost enough to drown out the sounds of the city below you, at least for a few feet until your altitude drops low enough that you can smell the car exhaust drifting up in the summer heat. Then it's all engines and horns and sirens and the pounding of feet on pavement and the low murmur of a thousand conversations. Just feel it, just for a moment, twisting in freefall. Feel the grasping fingertips of a million hands reaching up for you; hands to capture, hands to praise, hands to slay or deify or debase or idolise. Feel the swimming ocean of a city pulling itself in a hundred different directions, every new intention just one thread plucked to someone else's tune. Feel it all. Feel none of it.[/i] [i]Launch - grip - swing - release.[/i] [COLOR=#FF0000][center][b]- - -[/b][/center][/color] New York City pulses a couple hundred feet below Ben Reilly's current position, matching the ebb and flow of his altitude as he swings through the concrete valleys of Manhattan's urban grid. A few years ago, Ben might have been concerned about being spotted; a few years ago, people looked up a lot more than they used to. After the global crisis of the Reach, and the Superman's dramatic debut, Man realised that the sky held friend and foe alike, the potential for both far greater than anything the Earth had to offer. Of course, this was a lesson swiftly forgotten, a dirty secret Maxwell Lord had swept under the rug during his presidential campaign. These days, the focus was once again drawn back to the streets, back to mistrust and infighting. You didn't have any time to look up and wonder; you were kept too busy entertaining misplaced paranoia about your neighbour - about your colleagues - about your friends. Trust was hard. Ben had been operating barely a year, and the best he'd had was a short trending sound on TikTok paired with Patterson-Gimlin-esque footage, and some brief but passionate posts on local community forums. The rest that acknowledged his potential existence did so with skepticism at best, and zealous xenophobia at worst. He'd not received much official press coverage; the Bugle had printed only 2 articles and 4 reader's letters that even mentioned him, but what little had been said hadn't been flattering, and local radio never addressed the 'Spider' issue positively. Once Lord had been elected, the flames had only been stoked further, and since the checkpoints went up across the city, Ben swung through New York with his head on a swivel. He [i]wasn't[/i] being taken in if they cornered him, and he didn't imagine Lord's creeps would feel too precious about lethal force. In the west the sun dips low as the day comes to its conclusion, and Ben pauses his idle swinging to cling to the side of a building and watch the sky blossom in pink and orange as the sunset falls beyond the skyline. For all its serene beauty, the city below scarcely notices; streetlights and headlamps flick on and people draw closed curtains and blinds but the sound and the pulse of Manhattan doesn't skip a beat. The city that never sleeps; a shame that Ben Reilly [i]really[/i] likes to. With the sun down, Ben can dip lower toward the city and really pay attention to the minutiae. A thousand scattered lives play out in the streets beneath him and, like hundreds of nights before this one, he watches and imagines what it might be like to live in their shoes. He sees friends starting their nights, couples studying menus on the sidewalk, people walking out of buildings tearing their ties off from around their necks, people walking into buildings putting ties [i]on[/i]. A bouncer a block away leads a rowdy patron out of a bar and onto the street by the scruff of their neck, and stands imposing and unimpressed as a verbal salvo is fired his way before the drunk loses steam, offers the bouncer a truce in the form of a solemn handshake, and wanders off in search of a more welcoming watering hole. A man on the street opposite nervously fiddles with a ring box while clutching a bouquet in one hand and holding a phone to his ear in the other, talking in frantic hushed whispers about a restaurant booking that he was [i]absolutely sure[/i] was tonight. A small group of kids load quarters into a payphone, the ringleader bouncing on the balls of their feet as they dial and wait ring after agonizing ring; when the other end picks up, the gaggle erupts into a loud, well-staged, and heavily-accented teleplay about egg rolls and late deliveries. Even Ben cracks a chuckle at that one. It is remarkable to him; even with tragedy and farce spooling out around them, people still find ways to simply enjoy themselves. An angry yell cuts through and Ben hones in, a faint crackling in the back of his head alerting him to something not-right. He vaults off the wall and approaches the commotion; a couple blocks over, two thugs are holding up a bodega. There's one just on the inside of the door, holding it shut. From what Ben can hear, the other is at the register. There's a flash of silver in the doorman's hand and he realizes they're armed - in the short seconds it takes for him to arrive, one of the guns goes off and suddenly people are scattering, fleeing from the area, and soon the robbers are on the street. One carries a Reebok backpack that swings heavily on his shoulder, the front pocket bulging with cash. Ben lets go of his line and lands in front of the store with a soft [i]thud[/i]; his first thought is tending to any wounded and sourcing medical help before chasing the perpetrators. Quickly, he wrenches open the door and darts in, scanning the aisles and cashier's counter to see - A hole in the ceiling from the fired gun and an older man with a face like thunder sweeping up dust and righting merchandise stands. He looks up from the floor as he hears the bell chime for the opening of the door and when he sees Ben his face goes red enough to match Ben's costume. [b][color=white]"I've had [i]enough[/i] trouble tonight you costumed freak, get the hell outta here!"[/color][/b] He yells, brandishing the broom like a rapier leveled at Ben's masked face. Ben steps forward, stretching out his arms in a peaceful gesture, about to ask if anyone's hurt, if anyone needs any help - the guy just brings down the broom along his knuckles and Ben snatches his hands back, shaking them to cool the sting. [COLOR=#FF0000]"Ow!"[/color] He exclaims, stupefied. [color=white]"You bet your ass 'ow', buster! Plenty more where that came from!"[/color] The old man threatens again, this time advancing and wielding the broom in both hands. Ben backs up. [color=white]"Don't need no help from the likes of you, freak! Get got!"[/color] The bell chimes again as Ben swiftly exits and finds himself on the street once more; resolving to take a different course of action he lets loose a line of webbing and pulls himself up off the sidewalk and spinning into the air. It doesn't take long to identify the two suspects, still fleeing from the scene and their guns clumsily pocketed in some attempt to conceal. It takes even less time to catch up with them. [COLOR=#FF0000][center][b]- - -[/b][/center][/color] Ben doesn't even give them a chance to respond. Holding his line in one hand, he scoops one by the back of the neck effortlessly with the other, using the momentum of the swing to arc both of them upwards before letting go of the thug at the peak of the parabola; the thug yells as he hangs in the air, arms flailing, gun loose from the pocket and out of reach, and Ben gives it a few fractions of a second to make it look like he's just going to let him fall - before loosing two new lines. One hits the airborne brute straight in the chest, while the other hits the side of the building behind him, and Ben yanks [b]hard[/b] on the second line to launch himself forward, colliding with the webbed-up man on the way, already struggling against the binds. He's winded as he becomes the filling in a building-and-Ben Reilly-sandwich, and then can't struggle anymore as more webbing fixes him quite securely a good forty-something feet up the side of an apartment block. [COLOR=#FF0000]"Now if you're good and sit nicely, I might come and get you before the web dissolves and you stain the sidewalk. I don't want to clean up [i]two[/i] of your messes in one night."[/color] He murmured low, putting just the right amount of menace into his voice before backflipping off the wall and landing in front of the remaining thug. He paused for dramatic effect. Making a theatre of it helped maintain the novelty. Slowly, he drew himself up to full height, and slowly advanced. The thug backed away, his free hand fumbling in his jacket pocket for the gun. [COLOR=#FF0000]"Ooooh, I don't think so buddy."[/color] Ben said as he fired off another wad of webbing, fastening the guy's hand where it was. [COLOR=#FF0000]"You'll only end up getting hurt if you keep playing with grown-up toys."[/color] [color=white]"Fuck you, freak!"[/color] Was all that was managed in response. [COLOR=#FF0000]"Man, you would not be[i]lieve[/i] how tired I am of getting [i]called[/i] tha-"[/color] Ben was cut short by a shrill, piercing keening through his skull, the world moving in slow motion as the gun went off, bullet ripping a hole through the inner lining of the guy's jacket, quickly joined by several more as the robber haphazardly emptied his pistol with the awkward, glued-up grip he had on it. Ben had split-seconds to react; vaulting into the air, he pivoted on an invisible axis as bullets whipped past him, mere millimetres from his skin. He didn't let himself land - another line fired off, a snare that met its mark easily before being wrenched forwards, Ben and the thug meeting in the middle in a swift reciprocation of violence. Ben felt the guy's nose break and a couple teeth come loose beneath his fist, grimly satisfied as he landed on his feet and the thug landed hard on his back. In the span of a couple seconds, Ben flipped him over, wrenched the pistol from his pocket, bent it beyond recognition between his hands, and then threw him up next to his cohort and webbed him just the same. [COLOR=#FF0000]"This is why your mother told you not to play with guns. Someone always gets hurt!"[/color] Ben turned to scoop the bag, unzipping the pockets and rifling through the contents. Petty cash from the register in the front pocket, no more than a couple hundred at most, but the main compartment was bulging awkwardly from its cargo. Shoving a hand in, he pulled out a fistful of tobacco and cigarette packets; he waved them toward the strung-up thieves. [COLOR=#FF0000]"Bad for your health, guys! You should be thanking me!"[/color] Before he stuck his hand in further and hit...boxes? Too big to be more cigs, but he couldn't think what else something this size could be. Worth stealing, anyway. He pushed the smokes aside and pulled out... A Labubu? Oh, come [i]on[/i]. [COLOR=#FF0000]"Okay, you guys are way too old for these!"[/color] He called up again, pushing the sealed plush back in the bag. [COLOR=#FF0000]"I'm officially confiscating these! If you want them back you can come see me at reception after class!"[/color] With a deft movement he zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, launching another line up into the night sky and disappearing. Sirens were closing in, responding to the gunshots, and Ben Reilly didn't want to be here when the Five-O showed up. [COLOR=#FF0000][center][b]- - -[/b][/center][/color] When he arrives back at the bodega, the door is locked and the sign says 'Closed', but the lights are on and Ben can see glimpses of the same old man still sweeping and closing up shop, same thunderous expression painted across his face. Ben knocks, and the man looks up, and somehow his scowl deepens - it's written all over his face that he's about to let loose with both barrels and then some, and his hands are already searching the countertop for a phone, presumably to call the police with - until Ben holds up the backpack and points. The man's expression switches to one of sheer dumbfoundedness, before neutralising completely as he approaches the door and unlocks it, ushering Ben in. Ben proffers the bag without a word, accurately thinking that the less he says the more he will endear himself to this gentleman, and allows it to be snatched and thoroughly searched. The cash is counted and replaced, and the tobacco goes back in the cabinet behind the counter, but the Labubu dolls stay in the bag. Ben still doesn't say anything, but the micro-movements he makes with his head say everything. [color=white]"Damn things are more trouble than they're worth. Some hot new trend, my grandkids are nuts for them, so I thought I could flip 'em for a decent amount. But instead I get robbed legally when I order 'em in and then either kids come shoplift, or some upsmart punk [i]actually[/i] robs me so [i]he[/i] can scalp 'em instead. I'm returning the whole bunch."[/color] Ben just nods slowly, continuing his deductive streak by reasoning that quiet agreement is all that's needed. The owner counts up the last of his register, double-checking it with the returned cash, and then locks the whole tray in a safe in the office, and then locks the office. [color=white]"So you like some kinda club? Enthusiasts? Is it like an online thing?"[/color] Ben pauses for a minute, his mind distracted; he can smell the hotdogs on the roller and he's reminded he hasn't eaten in ten hours. [COLOR=#FF0000]"Huh?"[/color] [color=white]"C'mon man, you can't be a weirdo [i]and[/i] slow. That doesn't help nobody. The spider-thing - there's that other one around. You co-ordinate?"[/color] Ben clears his throat, shaking his head. He'd heard of the [i]other[/i] but hadn't paid it much mind. It didn't bear thinking about how they might have come about, considering Ben's own circumstances. [COLOR=#FF0000]"No, uh- no. Co-incidence, I guess. Popular bug, maybe."[/color] [color=white]"Arachnid."[/color] [COLOR=#FF0000]"Ex- excuse me?"[/color] [color=white]"Arachnid. Spiders aren't bugs. They're arachnids."[/color] He splayed his fingers while tucking his thumbs into his palms. [color=white]"Eight legs and all that."[/color] [COLOR=#FF0000]"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I knew that."[/color] [color=white]"Sure, man."[/color] He said, finalising the awkward conversation and heading over to the lightswitches. [color=white]"Look, thanks. For your help. I don't wanna know what you did to those guys but I'm sure they had it coming. I appreciate you bringing the stuff back, too. Woulda been real easy to just take off with it yourself. Not many people like you left these days, so. Thanks."[/color] Under his mask, Ben actually felt a smile breaking across his face, and a swell of pride in his chest. [COLOR=#FF0000]"You're welcome. I'm glad I [i]could[/i] help."[/color] [color=white]"Sure, man, sure. If you ever need a hand, I'll see what I can do."[/color] [COLOR=#FF0000]"I'd actually kill for a hotdog right now-"[/color] [color=white]"Are you crazy? This isn't some damn charity, and especially not for no meta freaks! Get outta my store!"[/color] [COLOR=#FF0000]"But you just sai-"[/color] [color=white]"Figuratively, man, figuratively! Like a nice gesture! I can't have Lord's rats thinking I'm running some mutie food bank, are you nuts?! Get out!"[/color] And out Ben went; but not without snagging some stale pastries from a bag out back of the bodega. [/color][/indent]