Roman

Ultimate One Universe: Resistance

I have been away.

Thanks to Roman posting. My travels end this coming Thursday.

@Pirouette

I was going to look at wrapping up Vulture and having a short convo with Silk, but I'll wait until the weekend and pick up maybe a second collab with you instead to finalise things?

Ultimate One Universe: Resistance

<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>

That said, the next one should be out next week (possibly around the weekends at the latest). Hope I get a permission from both @Pirouette and @Roman to use Kingpin. Especially from @Roman now that I caught ’em taking and editing my M-Word Pass. Lmfao, jkjk

@Terry Bogard

Kingpin is fine by me, but he factors more heavily into Piro's stuff so they'll need to give you the proper OK. My only real 'no touchy!' villains are Norman and Beck.

Ultimate One Universe: Resistance

Finally.........the screenshot will haunt Wraith no longer.

Ultimate One Universe: Resistance

_{Location: Manhattan - New York}

#1.02: Sixteen Better Than Eight

^{_{___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}
Feat. @Pirouette as Silk}

Ben sits on the lip of a skyscraper, his body jutting straight-out horizontally as he watches the city streets below him. The bag of pastries in his hand hangs straight down, crumbs flaking away into the evening air as he pushed a pastel de nata into his mouth, absentmindedly wiping the cinnamon dust from his fingers on the torn blue hoodie that formed part of his 'costume'. Hey, Manhattan gets chilly at night, even with the smog acting like one big carcinogenic blanket over the city.

Far beneath him, street lights and cars and people twinkled in a way that eerily mirrored the night sky above. The comings and goings of New York seemed almost akin to shadow theater. There were certainly plenty of Punch n' Judy types. Of particular interest to Ben this evening however was a commotion to the east, over the river. A police helicopter thundered in the distance, in pursuit of something far smaller and more agile that Ben could just barely make out. On the streets below, the tell-tale blue'n'reds of police cruisers raced along the streets, giving chase block after block. The speck got steadily closer, less murky until Ben could make it out as the figure of a man. For a minute he considered if the Superman was muscling in on his territory, before realizing he'd probably be just fine with that, but it quickly became clear this was not the blue blur from Metropolis - this figure had wings and turbines and no majestic cape. He seemed to be...circling? Looking for something maybe, flexing his equipment - was this a test pilot? Some new volume of Stark tech?

He watched a bit longer, picking egg custard out of his teeth with his tongue as he fished a second tart from his bag. Something else was after the flying act, but they were still pretty far below him and difficult to make out. There seemed to be some manner of altercation, an impact between the two parties while the police still failed to catch up, and then-

Ben could almost feel the two-day stubble being scorched straight off his chin as the turbines blasted past him. The tip of a wing caught the pastry in his hand and sent it flying, but Ben barely even registered the lost tart. Time seemed to move in slow-motion as the pilot blasted past him, trailing... the other spider. They locked eyes as she passed, spinning wildly in the air on the end of a web-line strung behind the flyer's wing and leg; they managed an awkward wave as she passed, Ben's mouth agape with his cowl rolled up to his nose, her eyes wide above her half-mask - and then she was gone, blasting off into the sky far above him.

Alright then. One quick blast of web to keep his pastries in place, and he leaped after them, one hand releasing a web-line of his own to snag on her ankle, while the other rolled his mask back down. Two spiders were better than one; and after that, maybe they could have a chat about divvying-up Manhattan's best wall-crawl spots.

Cindy's plan here hadn't really been thought out. She didn't weigh enough to really drag down the thrust of the escapee. It was just her trailing behind by her two tethers as they flew well over the buildings. Though it appears he did have a plan as they were flying towards the taller buildings of Manhattan. The hazards of rooftop dishes, antennae, and rooftop greeneries were getting closer.

Initially, the wingsuit bald man had been a little timid with his flight moves, at least Cindy thought so, but now he seemed to be getting the hang of it. She frowned, lifting her legs in a curl to avoid a satellite dish. Meaning it was only a matter of time before he tried something really reckless. Not wanting an accident to befall both her and the man, she started to scale up along her web lines, slowly closing in towards the man. Yet she didn't manage much progress before a building, dead ahead, approached with a frightful sturdiness. He wasn't going to crash, right? Her head flared intensely as they approached alerting her to the encroaching danger...

"HEY! LOOK OUT!" Cindy blurted out to the rushing wind, but she wasn't sure she could even be heard past the turbines. It felt silly to say because of course he would suddenly turn up at the last moment to avoid his own crash. Due to a little thing called trailing inertia, she would not be so lucky. Her twisted to go shoulder first into the side of a building, avoiding a window in process. She slammed against the siding, a hard but survivable blow with only a wince to show for it. Yet that was only the start as her side scrapped against the building. Her own silken woven suit doing its best to protect her at least from a nasty drag burn.

Her head started to flare again but this was different. She wasn't in danger but recognized something familiar? Her attention shifted to the point of attention ahead of her. A man was up there? Cindy kicked off the building, relieving herself from the discomfort and avoiding a collision into him potentially. Her sense seemingly slowing things down as she passed, her eyes wide in surprise to the fact at the chance encounter. It wasn't just a man but a man dressed in the same vein as her. It only got weirder as she passed by and she caught a web on her foot, her attention snapping to that. Did he just shoot a web?

Okay, she had questions, but for now she had a something else to contend with.

Air whipped past as Cindy, now Silk, held onto both of her web shots that were still stuck to the man with the jetpack wingsuit, who probably needed a name now. She glanced up, narrowing her eyes in focus and a reaction to wind whipping by as she was dragged along. The wings made it obvious that he had to be called some kind of bird and due to how bald he was, Cindy had considered Bald Eagle. However, there was nothing graceful about his wings, patched together by various metal salvage that seemed mismatched. Plus, this guy didn't seem at all patriotic. Vulture seemed to fit, both having some kinds of them appearing bald and the scavenger profile.

That worked.

With the three of them now flying through the air tethered together, she could only imagine the silliness. Though this was finally enough weight and drag to slow Vulture noticeable. She might even be able to try and coordinate a bit here, assuming her counterpart was the like her. Cindy let go finally with one hand and lifted her webbed foot. She grabbed the Scarlet Spider's web and yanked it forward, looking to propel him up and past her to reach the Vulture. As he passed she hollered.

"STOP HIM!"

"Yes ma'am!" Ben answered, riding the line as his distaff counterpart yanked the web up, sling-shotting him over her head and toward the turbines; he fired another web, trying to gum up the works, but the jet bursts from the engines easily seared away the webbing. Instead, he aimed for one of the few remaining buildings they hadn't climbed up past yet, trying to snag a line by which to reel them in - but another deft movement from the pilot and the edge of a wing flicked just-so, and the web was cut through as easily as the air around them. Ben looked down to Cindy, still pulling herself up by the remaining line.
"Guy's got some moves!" He called down, hoping he could be heard over the roaring wind and jet turbines. With newly-steeled resolve he crawled further up, gripping tightly as Vulture continued to try shaking them off, nearly slipping a couple times before he found himself underneath the flyer, gripping his harness and nearly face-to-face.
"I've heard of jay-walking, but this is ridiculous! Pull over!"
"Are awful jokes an entry requirement to spider-club? Let go of me!"
"Oooh, so you can talk! Here I was thinking I'd have to look up mating dance videos later to figure out what you were trying to-HEY!"

Ben's spider-sense went off urgently as they swooped past a building at the same time as Vulture took a swing with a free arm; he couldn't dodge both and remain attached, so he made an even poorer choice and let go entirely. For a few milliseconds he was free-falling in a far more uncontrolled manner than he was comfortable with, but a second after that, Cindy's hand locked around his wrist and used his momentum to swing him underneath and around to the other side. Carrying the weight of three people, combined with the jostling and turbulence, Vulture's turbines weren't keeping up with the strain, and they were slowly-but-surely losing altitude; though there were still a couple hundred feet to go before Ben felt like letting go was a viable option again.
"What's this guy's problem? Only chicken left when he wanted fish?" He called to Cindy, trying to maintain levity in a situation he had no idea how to handle. She raised a single quizzical eyebrow in response. "Airline food? Different generation I guess."

Ben took a foolish look down and had to suppress a shiver; despite the slow decline, the streets were still shrunken beneath them, the once-detailed avenues and alleyways now paper-thin lines populated by the pinpricks of citizens below. Even and soon they'd be out of options, too. They couldn't web the guy up - the razor-sharp wings and jet-engine turbines sliced and seared through their lines respectively - and at this height, removing their source of flight power was a foolishly lethal choice. They couldn't just bring him down; they had to redirect the flight path, stop this guy from attempting to climb and instead encourage what Ben hoped would be a controlled descent, before he blew his engines pushing them and sent them all plummeting. The turbines whined and strained, and as the New York harbour crested the horizon, it all hit Ben like a lightning bolt.

"I have an idea, but it's gonna seem kinda crazy!" Ben cried over the wind and jet-engine scream, hoping the shakiness in his voice didn't carry and betray the wavering confidence in his own plan. If they could suddenly jettison the excess weight, the at-their-limit turbines would burst forth in a sudden surge - and then a couple well-placed web lines would let Ben and Cindy become the lever upon which Vulture's own momentum would force him to swing. The city shoreline was approaching, and if they swung him just-right, they could pitch him straight into the drink.
"We need to let go!"

Cindy just looked at him like he was crazy.

Maybe he was.

Ultimate One Universe: Resistance

And that's the Roman Guarantee^{(Registered Trademark)}.

Agents of H.E.L.P. - Per Angusta Ad Augusta

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{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.

^{"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."

Ultimate One Universe: Resistance

We edge ever closer to the day of my Sonic The Hedgehog application. One AI Supervillain crossover erotica post at a time.

Ultimate One Universe: Resistance

<Snipped quote by Sep>

Looks like I have a flight to catch.

@Lord Wraith

Roman's Scrapbin

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 _________________________________________________________ [+] - A B I L I T I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ ABILITY Abilities, or Superpowers are characteristics that your character possesses which are considered extraordinary when compared to a standard human. - T O O L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ TOOL Tools are weapons or objects employed by your character to fight, defend, or otherwise augment their natural abilities. - 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 _________________________________________________________ [+] - S K I L L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ SKILL A skill is a trained expertise or capability. This is something that your character has been to taught to recall or perform such as martial prowess or technological proficiency. - T A L E N T (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ TALENT A talent is a gift that comes from natural aptitude such as perfect pitch or natural athleticism. This is a boon a character has not had to develop necessarily in the same way others might have. -

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.

---

Ultimate One Universe: Resistance

_{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.