And that's the Roman Guarantee(Registered Trademark).
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Watch out.
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED
Most Recent Posts
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Bureau Unit Offices - Winnipeg, Manitoba
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Times of Trouble #1.009: Victims
Interaction(s): None
“Four in Sixty-Three.”
Solomon twitched and dropped his pencil mid-stroke, looking up sharply and scanning the room. It was dark and empty and nothing moved. He turned bodily to the doorway and saw the hallway, too, was absent of any individual. He seemed to take a longer look, peering for something in the dark beyond his lamplight, before emitting a subtle sigh and returning to his note-taking.
“Working. No distractions.” He announced to the empty study; and then his head was once again buried in the thick tome laid open on his desk, eyes flicking across the page as the pencil scurried back and forth in his hand making notes shorthand and erratic.
This time Solomon's sigh wasn't subtle, more a protracted, passive-aggressive exhalation. Theatrical, almost. He stood, tucking his pencil neatly into the spine of the book to save his place as he folded it closed. He scanned the room again, making another sweep around the empty darkness and the hallway beyond before stepping over to the light switch. The overhead bulb flickered to life with an audible hum that quickly faded away, the new light drowning out the small oil lamp he'd been working by. With a deep pull from a mug of long-cold coffee, Solomon moved to a set of bookcases that spanned the full wall, shelves bowing from the weight of the ledgers atop. He traced fingers across spines, reading worn and faded stickers in search of-
"Hmm."
Ledgers were missing. Nineteen sixty-one to sixty-four. Solomon sighed again.
He marched hastily down the corridor, head down and stride hitting a strong rhythm. He wasn't sure where they might be, but he had a good idea; the other offices were nearby, and often unlocked. Just a quick shortcut via the break room and he'd soon figure out which colleague had purloined his case files, and then he could decide what he wanted to 'borrow' in return.
With his head down and mind distracted, Solomon didn't see the break room door opening before him and Senior Special Agent Hart step out into the hallway. Solomon barrelled forward, not keen on being dragged into small talk. He'd intended to finish his current book this evening, and this was already an unwelcome side-track. Hart was quicker and more agile than Solomon anyway, which he deftly proved by a sharp pivot to step out of Agent Winter's track as he pushed past to cut through.
"Oh, Sally. I didn't realize you were still he-""Twenty-one ruined."
"I really don't have time for you." Solomon muttered back to the hidden voice, but Hart caught it and his nostrils flared. It was hard to sneak anything past Hart. Brow furrowed, he reached out to take hold of Solomon's forearm.
"A little politeness wouldn't hurt, Special Agent Winters." He said, his voice firm, a tone of hierarchy creeping in. Solomon paused now and turned on his heel to look at Hart, their faces equally indignant. He yanked his arm back and there was an infinitesimal stand-off between the men.
"Busy." Solomon said, impatient.
"Everyone's busy, Sal. But we all find time to stop and say 'hi'. Especially to our seniors."
"Case files. '63." Was the only response given, and now was Hart's turn to sigh.
"Another little episode is it, Sally? Your 'voices' are a pain in the unit's ass, which makes you a pain in my ass. Won't be my problem much longer though."
"Looking forward to it. Case files." He sneered, not veering off-course for a second. It'd be so easy to be lured into a sniping match with Hart, but if another re-assignment was already in play, it'd just be wasted effort. Save it for the next guy.
"You're an asshole, Winters." Was Hart's response, and then he left. Solomon just frowned and pushed through the door into the break room, setting his stained mug in the sink on the way past.
The other offices were on the other side of the building, and they were actual offices designed to be worked in, ergonomic and well-lit and laid out efficiently. Solomon didn't have one of these, mostly because he'd deliberately chosen to roughly convert a back-storage room, preferring its separation, dimmer light, the quiet it achieved via isolation, and the already-in wall-to-wall shelving on one side, but also because his transfer into this unit had been preceded by his reputation, and the Resident Agent in Charge had been advised that the engraving on the door nameplate would probably take longer to arrive than Solomon would be stationed with them; when Solomon turned up, he'd brought with him an old-school desk plate, embossed "DR. SOLOMON WINTERS" and forgoing the usual rank affectation underneath. Volunteering to tuck himself away in a dusty corner suited the RAC just fine.
Here, Solomon paused. There were seven offices, six lining either side of the corridor and a final larger office at the end. They went in largely-hierarchical order, the office at the end reserved for Supervisory Special Agent Moreno - the RAC for the unit - and the others filtering down from Senior Special Agent through to the singular Probationary Agent. Solomon grunted. He hadn't been aware trainees had started getting offices. Wolf was particularly wet-behind-the-ears; he should have suspected it could have been a one-in-one-out scenario. It's not like he hadn't seen it before.
Solomon decided that Agent Wolf's office was the place to start. Trainees spent a lot of time with their nose in one case file or another, reading up on cold cases, closed cases, even active cases if their unit chief was feeling particularly generous. Studying the ways the world investigated things let you appreciate more how H.E.L.P. investigated their assignments; the good habits you could borrow, and the bad ones you had to discard. Solomon's 'office' was replete with case files from agencies and jurisdictions the world-over, more often than not particularly unusual, particularly violent, or particularly unsolved. It was well-known that Agent Winters spent more hours than he should diving down rabbit-holes trying to prove the impossible, coming up with outlandish but oddly-specific theories on a case's supposed hidden truths. His insight was valuable but more often than not un-asked-for.
There was a stack on Wolf's desk as Solomon entered, but the manila folders were a far cry from the dusty, well-bound ledgers he was looking for. He perused the files, sifting through paperwork and receipts and discarded food wrappers just in case, but came up empty. "Set free, permitted to hunt."
"Right." He announced, growing frustrated. He'd moved past all this but still the odd one wormed through, something or someone who didn't know better trying to reach out. The problem with things like this was it was only ever a one-way road and it only ever lead to Solomon Station, and every time a voice like this one whispered to him it was a sharp needle of ice pushing through his ear into his cerebellum and straight down his brain stem. It was uncomfortable and unwelcome and reminded him of vastly more miserable years. His already-lacking patience was wearing increasingly thin. Solomon marched toward the door, determined to ransack every office in the building to quiet whoever was pestering him.
He halted, hand outstretched; the very doorknob he was reaching for had a memo stuck to it.
"Right!"
Solomon thundered out of Wolf's office and bee-lined straight for Hart's. That'd be why Hart was here as late as Solomon was - for whatever reason, he'd nabbed the files from Wolf for his own purposes after the trainee had gone home for the day. Why Hart couldn't just pull rank and ask for the files, Solomon didn't know, but it made just as much sense as Moreno not telling Solomon he'd given the files to Wolf in the first place. He felt his cheeks grow hot as he chafed - politeness, eh? What about the common courtesy of asking instead of taking?
Solomon slammed his hand down on the door handle to Hart's office and rattled uselessly. The bastard had locked it before he'd left - probably anticipating Solomon would come looking for them and not wanting to give them up before he was done with them.
"Here! Léopold Dion! 21 raped, 4 killed, 1963!"
"P u n i s h."
"Sentenced! Life! Stabbed in prison 1972! Dead for twenty years! Nothing else to be done - now, leave me alone!"
There was - nothing. Silence. A dissipation of some imperceptible energy, like someone had finally opened a particularly tight jar several rooms away - the sudden lifting of a tension you weren't even aware of. Blissful quiet...
And then Moreno burst into the office, his gaze washing over the shattered lock and splintered door frame and folders and ledgers strewn across the floor, and Solomon Winters, amidst it all, holding an old file and pointing at a 30-something-year-old closed case while shouting angrily into the ether.
"What the hell is going on in here, Winters?! He demanded, eyes agog and face reddening.
"Just tracking down an old case, Manny." Solomon answered, matter-of-factly.
"That's Resident Agent in Charge Moreno, Sally."
"That's Dr. Winters, Manuel."
There was a beat. Neither man moved. Solomon didn't enjoy his episodes, and neither did he enjoy the aftermaths, or being inevitably discovered in them. This had been pretty light, all things considered. Sometimes these things went on for days.
"Clear this up. Then clear out your desk."
"You don't have the authority to fire me."
Moreno laughed in a short, sharp, barking sound, entirely absent of mirth. "Don't I damn well know it. No, I can't fire you - but you're being moved on again, thank god. You can go be someone else's problem. Wasn't supposed to be until next week, but the unit's fed up of you. I'm fed up of you. So I'm sending you early. Fuck off to Base Alpha and don't be coming back in a hurry."
With his piece said, Moreno turned, nursing his temples as he walked out the room. Winters looked around Hart's office, feeling genuinely remorseful for his brash actions, but simply unable to express it. Absorbing Moreno's orders, he suddenly skipped to the door, leaning carefully out over the splintered wood to call after him:
"If you're sending me early, how am I going to expense my accommodation?"
Moreno didn't turn around, but Solomon watched him roll his neck in frustration.
"Expense?! You're not even a Senior! What do you think we pay you a salary for?" He called back, and then he was around the corner and away.
"Sure, a salary." Solomon muttered to himself, slinking back into Hart's office to clear up after himself, momentarily pondering if he should leave an apology note. "But not a very good one."
Solomon twitched and dropped his pencil mid-stroke, looking up sharply and scanning the room. It was dark and empty and nothing moved. He turned bodily to the doorway and saw the hallway, too, was absent of any individual. He seemed to take a longer look, peering for something in the dark beyond his lamplight, before emitting a subtle sigh and returning to his note-taking.
“Working. No distractions.” He announced to the empty study; and then his head was once again buried in the thick tome laid open on his desk, eyes flicking across the page as the pencil scurried back and forth in his hand making notes shorthand and erratic.
"Four dead, more taken."
This time Solomon's sigh wasn't subtle, more a protracted, passive-aggressive exhalation. Theatrical, almost. He stood, tucking his pencil neatly into the spine of the book to save his place as he folded it closed. He scanned the room again, making another sweep around the empty darkness and the hallway beyond before stepping over to the light switch. The overhead bulb flickered to life with an audible hum that quickly faded away, the new light drowning out the small oil lamp he'd been working by. With a deep pull from a mug of long-cold coffee, Solomon moved to a set of bookcases that spanned the full wall, shelves bowing from the weight of the ledgers atop. He traced fingers across spines, reading worn and faded stickers in search of-
"Hmm."
Ledgers were missing. Nineteen sixty-one to sixty-four. Solomon sighed again.
He marched hastily down the corridor, head down and stride hitting a strong rhythm. He wasn't sure where they might be, but he had a good idea; the other offices were nearby, and often unlocked. Just a quick shortcut via the break room and he'd soon figure out which colleague had purloined his case files, and then he could decide what he wanted to 'borrow' in return.
With his head down and mind distracted, Solomon didn't see the break room door opening before him and Senior Special Agent Hart step out into the hallway. Solomon barrelled forward, not keen on being dragged into small talk. He'd intended to finish his current book this evening, and this was already an unwelcome side-track. Hart was quicker and more agile than Solomon anyway, which he deftly proved by a sharp pivot to step out of Agent Winter's track as he pushed past to cut through.
"Oh, Sally. I didn't realize you were still he-""Twenty-one ruined."
"I really don't have time for you." Solomon muttered back to the hidden voice, but Hart caught it and his nostrils flared. It was hard to sneak anything past Hart. Brow furrowed, he reached out to take hold of Solomon's forearm.
"A little politeness wouldn't hurt, Special Agent Winters." He said, his voice firm, a tone of hierarchy creeping in. Solomon paused now and turned on his heel to look at Hart, their faces equally indignant. He yanked his arm back and there was an infinitesimal stand-off between the men.
"Busy." Solomon said, impatient.
"Everyone's busy, Sal. But we all find time to stop and say 'hi'. Especially to our seniors."
"Innocence lost. Never reclaimed."
"Case files. '63." Was the only response given, and now was Hart's turn to sigh.
"Another little episode is it, Sally? Your 'voices' are a pain in the unit's ass, which makes you a pain in my ass. Won't be my problem much longer though."
"Looking forward to it. Case files." He sneered, not veering off-course for a second. It'd be so easy to be lured into a sniping match with Hart, but if another re-assignment was already in play, it'd just be wasted effort. Save it for the next guy.
"You're an asshole, Winters." Was Hart's response, and then he left. Solomon just frowned and pushed through the door into the break room, setting his stained mug in the sink on the way past.
The other offices were on the other side of the building, and they were actual offices designed to be worked in, ergonomic and well-lit and laid out efficiently. Solomon didn't have one of these, mostly because he'd deliberately chosen to roughly convert a back-storage room, preferring its separation, dimmer light, the quiet it achieved via isolation, and the already-in wall-to-wall shelving on one side, but also because his transfer into this unit had been preceded by his reputation, and the Resident Agent in Charge had been advised that the engraving on the door nameplate would probably take longer to arrive than Solomon would be stationed with them; when Solomon turned up, he'd brought with him an old-school desk plate, embossed "DR. SOLOMON WINTERS" and forgoing the usual rank affectation underneath. Volunteering to tuck himself away in a dusty corner suited the RAC just fine.
Here, Solomon paused. There were seven offices, six lining either side of the corridor and a final larger office at the end. They went in largely-hierarchical order, the office at the end reserved for Supervisory Special Agent Moreno - the RAC for the unit - and the others filtering down from Senior Special Agent through to the singular Probationary Agent. Solomon grunted. He hadn't been aware trainees had started getting offices. Wolf was particularly wet-behind-the-ears; he should have suspected it could have been a one-in-one-out scenario. It's not like he hadn't seen it before.
Solomon decided that Agent Wolf's office was the place to start. Trainees spent a lot of time with their nose in one case file or another, reading up on cold cases, closed cases, even active cases if their unit chief was feeling particularly generous. Studying the ways the world investigated things let you appreciate more how H.E.L.P. investigated their assignments; the good habits you could borrow, and the bad ones you had to discard. Solomon's 'office' was replete with case files from agencies and jurisdictions the world-over, more often than not particularly unusual, particularly violent, or particularly unsolved. It was well-known that Agent Winters spent more hours than he should diving down rabbit-holes trying to prove the impossible, coming up with outlandish but oddly-specific theories on a case's supposed hidden truths. His insight was valuable but more often than not un-asked-for.
There was a stack on Wolf's desk as Solomon entered, but the manila folders were a far cry from the dusty, well-bound ledgers he was looking for. He perused the files, sifting through paperwork and receipts and discarded food wrappers just in case, but came up empty. "Set free, permitted to hunt."
"Right." He announced, growing frustrated. He'd moved past all this but still the odd one wormed through, something or someone who didn't know better trying to reach out. The problem with things like this was it was only ever a one-way road and it only ever lead to Solomon Station, and every time a voice like this one whispered to him it was a sharp needle of ice pushing through his ear into his cerebellum and straight down his brain stem. It was uncomfortable and unwelcome and reminded him of vastly more miserable years. His already-lacking patience was wearing increasingly thin. Solomon marched toward the door, determined to ransack every office in the building to quiet whoever was pestering him.
He halted, hand outstretched; the very doorknob he was reaching for had a memo stuck to it.
Jake - took those '60s files Moreno told you to flick through - need to look at something.
I'll give them back in a couple days.
Sally won't miss them - just let Moreno handle him if he makes a stink.
-Hart
"Right!"
Solomon thundered out of Wolf's office and bee-lined straight for Hart's. That'd be why Hart was here as late as Solomon was - for whatever reason, he'd nabbed the files from Wolf for his own purposes after the trainee had gone home for the day. Why Hart couldn't just pull rank and ask for the files, Solomon didn't know, but it made just as much sense as Moreno not telling Solomon he'd given the files to Wolf in the first place. He felt his cheeks grow hot as he chafed - politeness, eh? What about the common courtesy of asking instead of taking?
Solomon slammed his hand down on the door handle to Hart's office and rattled uselessly. The bastard had locked it before he'd left - probably anticipating Solomon would come looking for them and not wanting to give them up before he was done with them.
"Never should have happened."
"I'm getting there!" He practically roared, giving up all pretense at intra-office relations and delivering his foot to the door just next to the lock. With frustration boiling over channeled into the kick the door gave way under a singular blow, and Solomon marched in, immediately seeing his ledgers atop Hart's filing cabinet in the corner - he hustled over, blood pumping, snatching up the pile and tossing years '61, '62, and '64 to the floor before flipping '63 open in his hand and searching vigorously through it. With a triumphant finger, he found his quarry and stabbed the page viciously with the tip of his index."Here! Léopold Dion! 21 raped, 4 killed, 1963!"
"P u n i s h."
"Sentenced! Life! Stabbed in prison 1972! Dead for twenty years! Nothing else to be done - now, leave me alone!"
There was - nothing. Silence. A dissipation of some imperceptible energy, like someone had finally opened a particularly tight jar several rooms away - the sudden lifting of a tension you weren't even aware of. Blissful quiet...
And then Moreno burst into the office, his gaze washing over the shattered lock and splintered door frame and folders and ledgers strewn across the floor, and Solomon Winters, amidst it all, holding an old file and pointing at a 30-something-year-old closed case while shouting angrily into the ether.
"What the hell is going on in here, Winters?! He demanded, eyes agog and face reddening.
"Just tracking down an old case, Manny." Solomon answered, matter-of-factly.
"That's Resident Agent in Charge Moreno, Sally."
"That's Dr. Winters, Manuel."
There was a beat. Neither man moved. Solomon didn't enjoy his episodes, and neither did he enjoy the aftermaths, or being inevitably discovered in them. This had been pretty light, all things considered. Sometimes these things went on for days.
"Clear this up. Then clear out your desk."
"You don't have the authority to fire me."
Moreno laughed in a short, sharp, barking sound, entirely absent of mirth. "Don't I damn well know it. No, I can't fire you - but you're being moved on again, thank god. You can go be someone else's problem. Wasn't supposed to be until next week, but the unit's fed up of you. I'm fed up of you. So I'm sending you early. Fuck off to Base Alpha and don't be coming back in a hurry."
With his piece said, Moreno turned, nursing his temples as he walked out the room. Winters looked around Hart's office, feeling genuinely remorseful for his brash actions, but simply unable to express it. Absorbing Moreno's orders, he suddenly skipped to the door, leaning carefully out over the splintered wood to call after him:
"If you're sending me early, how am I going to expense my accommodation?"
Moreno didn't turn around, but Solomon watched him roll his neck in frustration.
"Expense?! You're not even a Senior! What do you think we pay you a salary for?" He called back, and then he was around the corner and away.
"Sure, a salary." Solomon muttered to himself, slinking back into Hart's office to clear up after himself, momentarily pondering if he should leave an apology note. "But not a very good one."
We edge ever closer to the day of my Sonic The Hedgehog application. One AI Supervillain crossover erotica post at a time.
<Snipped quote by Sep>
Looks like I have a flight to catch.
J O N A H H E X
J O N A H H E X
J O N A H H E X
"By the tanning of our hides, something wicked this way rides."
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T  _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y Given Middle Surname _________________________________________________________ Age | Relationship Status _________________________________________________________ Affiliation(s) [If Applicable] | Nationality N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S | T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... A brief synopsis of your character's life, experiences and training before the RP begins. This is where you outline your vision for the character including any notable changes or differences from the regularly accepted canon. This should be a short summary that provides insight into where the character is in terms of their overall progress and development. You could also include any notable differences from the standard canon you've added to your character. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) Why do you want to play this character, what is the driving motivation behind both this desire and the character themselves. What do you hope to accomplish and where do you want the character's story/stories to go? For a driving character, there should be enough of an outline present to interest other players along with specifications towards how many players you're looking to involve or available roles. For supporting characters, this should indicate either a plot you've arranged to be part of or the type of plot you're looking to be involved in. Roaming characters have the privilege of doing either or simply stating a roadmap for the character to exemplify how you'd ideally like them to move between plots. |
Location: Manhattan - New York
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________#1.01: Charity Case
Launch - grip - swing - release. Launch - grip - swing - release. Launch - grip - swing - release.
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.
Launch - grip - swing - release.
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 wasn't 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 really 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 on. 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 absolutely sure 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 thud; 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.
"I've had enough trouble tonight you costumed freak, get the hell outta here!" 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.
"Ow!" He exclaims, stupefied.
"You bet your ass 'ow', buster! Plenty more where that came from!" The old man threatens again, this time advancing and wielding the broom in both hands. Ben backs up. "Don't need no help from the likes of you, freak! Get got!"
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.
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 hard 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.
"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 two of your messes in one night." 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.
"Ooooh, I don't think so buddy." Ben said as he fired off another wad of webbing, fastening the guy's hand where it was. "You'll only end up getting hurt if you keep playing with grown-up toys."
"Fuck you, freak!" Was all that was managed in response.
"Man, you would not believe how tired I am of getting called tha-"
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.
"This is why your mother told you not to play with guns. Someone always gets hurt!"
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.
"Bad for your health, guys! You should be thanking me!"
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 on.
"Okay, you guys are way too old for these!" He called up again, pushing the sealed plush back in the bag. "I'm officially confiscating these! If you want them back you can come see me at reception after class!"
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.
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.
"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 actually robs me so he can scalp 'em instead. I'm returning the whole bunch."
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.
"So you like some kinda club? Enthusiasts? Is it like an online thing?"
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.
"Huh?"
"C'mon man, you can't be a weirdo and slow. That doesn't help nobody. The spider-thing - there's that other one around. You co-ordinate?"
Ben clears his throat, shaking his head. He'd heard of the other but hadn't paid it much mind. It didn't bear thinking about how they might have come about, considering Ben's own circumstances. "No, uh- no. Co-incidence, I guess. Popular bug, maybe."
"Arachnid."
"Ex- excuse me?"
"Arachnid. Spiders aren't bugs. They're arachnids." He splayed his fingers while tucking his thumbs into his palms. "Eight legs and all that."
"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I knew that."
"Sure, man." He said, finalising the awkward conversation and heading over to the lightswitches. "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."
Under his mask, Ben actually felt a smile breaking across his face, and a swell of pride in his chest.
"You're welcome. I'm glad I could help."
"Sure, man, sure. If you ever need a hand, I'll see what I can do."
"I'd actually kill for a hotdog right now-"
"Are you crazy? This isn't some damn charity, and especially not for no meta freaks! Get outta my store!"
"But you just sai-"
"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!"
And out Ben went; but not without snagging some stale pastries from a bag out back of the bodega.
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.
Launch - grip - swing - release.
- - -
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 wasn't 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 really 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 on. 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 absolutely sure 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 thud; 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.
"I've had enough trouble tonight you costumed freak, get the hell outta here!" 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.
"Ow!" He exclaims, stupefied.
"You bet your ass 'ow', buster! Plenty more where that came from!" The old man threatens again, this time advancing and wielding the broom in both hands. Ben backs up. "Don't need no help from the likes of you, freak! Get got!"
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.
- - -
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 hard 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.
"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 two of your messes in one night." 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.
"Ooooh, I don't think so buddy." Ben said as he fired off another wad of webbing, fastening the guy's hand where it was. "You'll only end up getting hurt if you keep playing with grown-up toys."
"Fuck you, freak!" Was all that was managed in response.
"Man, you would not believe how tired I am of getting called tha-"
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.
"This is why your mother told you not to play with guns. Someone always gets hurt!"
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.
"Bad for your health, guys! You should be thanking me!"
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 on.
"Okay, you guys are way too old for these!" He called up again, pushing the sealed plush back in the bag. "I'm officially confiscating these! If you want them back you can come see me at reception after class!"
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.
- - -
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.
"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 actually robs me so he can scalp 'em instead. I'm returning the whole bunch."
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.
"So you like some kinda club? Enthusiasts? Is it like an online thing?"
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.
"Huh?"
"C'mon man, you can't be a weirdo and slow. That doesn't help nobody. The spider-thing - there's that other one around. You co-ordinate?"
Ben clears his throat, shaking his head. He'd heard of the other but hadn't paid it much mind. It didn't bear thinking about how they might have come about, considering Ben's own circumstances. "No, uh- no. Co-incidence, I guess. Popular bug, maybe."
"Arachnid."
"Ex- excuse me?"
"Arachnid. Spiders aren't bugs. They're arachnids." He splayed his fingers while tucking his thumbs into his palms. "Eight legs and all that."
"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I knew that."
"Sure, man." He said, finalising the awkward conversation and heading over to the lightswitches. "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."
Under his mask, Ben actually felt a smile breaking across his face, and a swell of pride in his chest.
"You're welcome. I'm glad I could help."
"Sure, man, sure. If you ever need a hand, I'll see what I can do."
"I'd actually kill for a hotdog right now-"
"Are you crazy? This isn't some damn charity, and especially not for no meta freaks! Get outta my store!"
"But you just sai-"
"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!"
And out Ben went; but not without snagging some stale pastries from a bag out back of the bodega.
<Snipped quote by Sep>
Roman's sheet didn't specify that Peter didn't have a kid out there somewhere...
Given my Peter was 15 when he got his powers, then near-immediately abducted for the next 5 years, and then died as soon as he escaped, a Parker child would imply some......unsavoury circumstances.
<Snipped quote by Roman>
It’s okay. But I wonder, tho, is an alt version of Peter will be aight?
To be honest nearly any version of Peter Parker would undercut what my sheet is predicated on, and I also don't know how the GMs feel about multiversal characters, but I'm not the guy accepting sheets.
<Snipped quote by mattmanganon>
Oof. I had no idea. I’ve only read the entire OG post from the first page. When will he be available?
Peter caught a bad case of being dead so my apologies there. If you want to talk about other Spider-People though myself and @Pirouette can field questions.
T H E S C A R L E T S P I D E R
T H E S C A R L E T S P I D E R
T H E S C A R L E T S P I D E R
"There has to be a Spider-Man out there. I'm just not sure it should be me."
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T  _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y Benjamin 'Peter' Reilly _________________________________________________________ 25 | Single _________________________________________________________ Manhattan | American N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S | T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... Peter Parker, 15, a young and exceedingly clever high-school student in Queens, is invited to an exclusive guided tour through the Oscorp research centre in Manhattan, attending a program created for the best and brightest, intended to afford New York's most intelligent youth a window into the foremost scientific hub in New York State, and a lifeline opportunity to join their ranks upon completion of their studies. Unbeknownst to either Oscorp or Peter himself, a spider - subject to genetic research and experimentation within the bowels of the site's laboratory, aided by early technological exchange with the Reach - escaped its enclosure. It found Peter, using its final gasps of life to deliver a single bite, and introduce a toxin to Peter's body that would prove to be the fateful pivot upon which his entire life would spin. Struck down by a debilitating illness, Peter spent weeks wracked with agonizing pains, migraines, nausea, fading in and out of consciousness as his very genetic makeup was rewritten, pulled apart and knitted back together. When he finally recovered, he found himself in possession of strange, unexplained powers; stronger, faster, tougher; quicker reflexes, and and ability to cling to any surface regardless of orientation; most peculiar of all, an almost pre-cognitive warning of incoming danger or harm, allowing him to twist and react to evade or counter. Giddy from what these new powers meant for him, Peter was reckless; he bounded into the city, engaging in nothing more than simple play around the urban landscape of Manhattan, a new sandbox opening up before him. Visions of a reinvented life swam before him: the Amazing Spider-Man! Stronger than you, faster than you! Witness his incredible wall-crawling! Laud his inability to be hit! See how he swings from web of his own creation! Watch how robbers and bullies cower at his feet, and the ladies swoon beneath him! Spectacular, Sensational, Superior...! And then Uncle Ben was murdered. And then Aunt May had a stroke. And then Peter Parker was abducted as the Reach War erupted. Five long years took their toll on a teenager. Kept in a half-conscious state of suspended animation, Peter's DNA was harvested again and again for hideous experiments into neogenics, the Reach sure that this mutated boy's cells held the key to turning the tide of the war and conquering Earth. All manner of tests and trials were held; reproducing the original spider, creating biologic serums out of Peter's genetic makeup, direct transfusion, even cross-gene grafting. Frustrated by failure at every turn, the Reach rounded on a new avenue; direct genetic cloning. The logic held up: Peter, by some unknown quantity or quality, had accepted and melded with the original spider's toxin, an against-the-odds alchemy that improved him beyond the scope of Human, rather than destroy him at the cellular level like so many other subjects since. Reproduce that, and the Reach had an army that could seamlessly hide within Humanity's ranks, under their direct control, and ready to destroy their enemy from within. The science was agreed on; the experiment approved. The cloning began. The plan never saw itself realized; five years into the crisis, the Superman appeared, and the Reach were driven from Earth entirely. In the carnage, Peter awoke from his suspension, five years older and his memories murky and muddled since the abduction. He broke containment easily, assisting and rescuing others as he escaped the research station amidst a distracted and routed Reach - including, to his distress, a solitary, perfectly identical copy, withered half-lame from incomplete growth, and equally confused. Together, they returned to Earth, and watched the sky clear of their tormentors, fleeing on their heels faced with the might of Earth's new defender. And then the bomb went off. Only in the wake of fresh calamity was the truth revealed; this wilted, languishing Peter was no half-finished clone, no incomplete experiment. This was the original Peter Parker, the abductee, drained and harvested and picked at for the Reach's heinous purposes; the Peter who had escaped, who had broken containment and rescued the others, was the singular successful, stable reproduction in their myriad cloning attempts. The original begged the clone to understand - he was stronger, faster, tougher, a Spider-Man Improved, a terrible reckoning created by the Reach but never utilized. He had to be better; he had to be greater. He had to take to heart the lessons the Reach had not, the lessons Peter had learned so dreadfully, the lessons the Superman demonstrated so nobly. With Great Power, Comes Great Responsibility. Peter was buried with his Uncle and Aunt. Ben Reilly attended from a distance, and then disappeared into New York City. He spent five years travelling, discovering the Earth that only existed in memories that weren't even truly his; five years discovering himself, and what he stood for. Five years watching the consequences of the meta-bomb, of the Reach's incursion against the planet. Five years watching men like Maxwell Lord wash over society and stain everything they touched. After five years, Ben returned to New York City, ready to face whatever the teeming masses had to offer. In his first week, he stopped a mugging, then a burglary; and it had been so easy. So natural. A piece of biology embedded even further than his abilities; even five years post-mortem, Ben was reminded where he came from. And Peter had been proven right: there had to be a Spider-Man. Ben couldn't ignore it. Whether they wanted it or not, the people needed a protector. But it would have to be on his terms. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) I love Spider-Man but honestly, Ben Reilly and the Scarlet Spider have always been cooler. The identity struggle, the suit, even the alias are all just a bit more interesting and have a bit more edge on the age-old tale of Peter Parker. My main issue with ever writing a Spider-Man story is also what do you write that hasn't been written already, with what's one half of the two most successful comic book properties on the planet? I don't have anything for Peter and re-doing a classic origin would put me to sleep; but Ben? Ben's cool. Ben's trying to fill a hole Peter never had the chance to drill in the first place. Ben's trying to figure out who he is, if he's not Peter. With Peter dead, maybe he is Peter, just by default. But does he want to be Peter? Does he want to be Spider-Man? I don't know, but we can sure find out. |
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