-How are you?
-...
-I'm fine, just don't overdo it, or else...
-...
-Yes, yes, -wiping the sweat from my forehead, I fall back in my chair with relief, -if anything, just let me know, I'll help you.
-...
-Good, see you later, old chap.
I put the phone down on the table and rubbed my face with my palms, feeling a strange mixture of relief and fatigue. The conversation with Pete had been tough, especially the part where the friendly neighbour insistently refused to help, wanting to deal with the bastard in the goblin suit himself.
I understood Parker's desire to solve his own problems, but the terrorist attack must have hit him harder than he was trying to show, because my old friend had a very angry and promising voice when it came to the Goblin.
-Goblin... Goblin, Goblin, Goblin, - tapping my fingers on my temple, I remembered something like that in my memory, but I could not capture the thought, cleverly escaping from my persistent attempts, - one of the main enemies of Spider.... A local Joker or something like that....
Unclear pictures flashed in my head, showing this character in various images, starting from ridiculous Halloween costume, finishing with technological armour....
Now, judging by the news and Pete's stories, there was a nice mix. The new supervillain had good armour, but he was no stranger to corporate style, favouring bright colours and flashy elements.
-Okay, I'll wait a couple of days, if anything, I'll get in and help.
The decision was made easily and let Peter then angry or offended, but I was not going to put people and the life of my friend at risk. Goblin - a reckless and bloodthirsty bastard that does not mind dropping bombs on ordinary people, playing as dirty and dishonest as possible.
But aside from Spidey's problems, I had a lot of other fights on my plate, and each one was definitely not going to be easy.
"Except maybe the spiky-haired kid. I don't know if he can shoot them or not, but against a steel tentacle that can take out a large minivan in a couple of seconds.... Not a chance."
-But don't get cocky, right, Doc?
Winking at the photo on the table, where besides Octavius stood myself and the missing Herman, I move closer in my chair, taking the frame in my hands.
We had taken this photo a couple of days before those gruesome events happened, capturing our satisfied faces in the moment. Here Schultz was smiling his usual melancholy smile. His eyes were looking straight into the camera, and the guy was trying to hold a sample of the manipulator, which all three of us were holding like a snake.
-It's like a holiday photo, somewhere on the equator. Okay, time to get some work done," I put the photo back in its place and carefully wipe off the dust streaks, "I'll do some useful stuff.
One of the tentacles bent down to the level of my face, putting its "head" under my hands. Stroking and playing with the mechanism, I untwist myself on the chair, sending myself towards the desk, spreading my arms out to the sides in a cocky manner.
-Alice, a little cheerful music.
Obeying my command, the manipulator stomped out one claw, switching on the music on the player. A jaunty rhythm, an electric guitar, and a voice that had thrilled thousands of people so far.
-That's better. Bring the old man here, let's have a look at his gut, - two free tentacles rushed deep into the laboratory, deftly going through the rubble of manipulators, pulling out one of the earliest and oldest samples. Delivering it to my desk, they hung it on special hooks, - fixation.
Duplicating the mental commands with my voice, for recording on a small camera to leave the visual results of the work for the doc, I put on my face goggles.
-Pliers.
The tentacles had a life of their own, wriggling in a dance, occasionally breaking away from the process, reacting to my commands and attracting what I needed.
-The burner. Shield. A magnifying glass.
The music echoed off the walls, making it sound even better, like being live at a concert.
-Tweezers. Lamp. Closer, closer. Don't be lazy, come on.
I was getting deeper and deeper into the gut, and the table was a creative mess that the tentacles were responsible for maintaining.
-Well, let's see what you're made of, old chap. Such a sturdy and lightweight body, this could be used....
***
In the evening of the same day. I ventured down to the city streets again for the first time in a long time. Whizzing over the tops of buildings, flying over the packed streets of New York, gazing into the lit streets, full of life and hope for the day ahead.
Murdock had warned me that it would take him a couple more days to get on the Brotherhood's trail, but in the meantime, both Rand and I could mind our own business. While my restless dragon-slayer teacher went off to fight some ninjas, I decided to do the more familiar task of clearing the streets of dirt.
The city was in mourning. The police, who had risen up in the gang war, were busily wheeling around the city, pulling in all suspicious elements. The people were hungry for answers and revenge, gathering in groups, chanting slogans, shouting the names of the dead, folding headlines that stuck to their tongues.
They wanted blood. Such a brutal and bloody massacre did not go unnoticed by the masses, so now thousands of citizens, angry because of the disturbed peace, poured into the streets, hoping to be the ones to find the bastard for whom the city authorities had promised a reward. A controversial decision, it seems to me, which could lead to even more victims. Most likely, the administration wanted to brand a common enemy with this move, to rally people by showing them the face of evil.
Holding on to my hat, I jump onto the building a few metres below my feet. The somersault comes out easily and effortlessly, dampening the inertia and allowing me to avoid injury.
Behind me were the bustling streets and crowds of townspeople, afraid to go into much darker and unfavourable neighbourhoods. There were no signs here, for long ago they had been stolen or destroyed. There were no patrols, for it was easier to get shot than to buy a drink.
Not a single shop, not a single passerby or honest citizen. Just old buildings covered in graffiti and shit along the walls.
The vile odour of the ghetto hit the nose. Unwashed bodies, faeces and just plain filth. Huge rubbish heaps with legions of rodents swarming deep inside. Fences and pay phones cut down to metal ...
-I've wanted to do something about this place for a long time. Clean it out, not bite off a piece at a time.
I had my mobile phone in my hand. The speed-dial button - and slow, measured beeps ring out over the roof as I wait for a reply from the other side.
-On the line.
-Hello, George.
-The little shit," the old bobby sounds like he's taking a deep drag, exhaling the smoke and holding back his emotions, "disappeared for six months and then showed up again.
-There were some problems.
-I know what kind of problems people like you have.
-I'm back in business.
-Oh, fuck. I'm afraid to imagine what I'm about to hear.
-You're gonna love it.
-Speak up, schemer.
I could hear the anticipation in his voice. Apparently, used to working in tandem, the old cop was genuinely happy to hear that I was okay, and now he was ready to start fighting crime with dirty methods again.
-Marcy House.
-Oh, fuck.
I hang up the phone, knowing full well what I'm going to hear in my address, and put it away in a secure pocket. My hands habitually pull off my gloves, checking how they fit.
I crunch my cervical vertebrae, kneading my shoulders slightly, even though I don't need to. My breathing becomes slow, and my heart slows to a frantic beat.
My cloak fluttered behind me, and the manipulators crawled out through the slots, glinting metal in the glow of the distant surviving lanterns and room light.
Thunder rumbled overhead. The gathering clouds chanted, resembling a medieval mob. As if two gladiators, me and the New York ghetto, stood opposite each other, waiting to begin.
A flash.
Lightning ripped through the sky, struck somewhere in the distance, and I hurtled forward, pushing myself with my tentacles and giving myself acceleration.
Grabbing the wall of the building, I flew through the first window I could see, behind which I could see dozens of armed and stoned bandits.
-Whoa, man, what the fuck?
Time slows down, but it's just an illusion and a trick of perception. With my body full of Qi, I leap into action, sending the jumped-up Negro through the flimsy wall and into the corridor.
The manipulators hovered behind me, claws out to the sides, looming menacingly over my enemies.
-Fuck...
I grinned at the look on the face of one of the bandits and leapt into action, smashing everything in my path.
***
George Stacy drove forward, swearing and biting his lip as he twisted the steering wheel, not listening to the lamentations of his second-in-command, a young, promising lieutenant. His fingers were gripping the steering wheel with such force that his knuckles had long since turned white and could no longer be felt.
The ashy cigarette burned his lip and fell in a pile of ash on his trousers. His precious little girl had hit a few bumps and potholes that would definitely have to be fixed in the shop. But the old cop drove on, followed by a real cavalcade of police, scaring away all the criminal contingent, forcing the latter to hide in their holes.
-Should we slow down, sir? -Should we slow down, sir?
-Shut up, Kitten! One more word about this and I'll have you speeding into town for the rest of your life!
-Absolutely, sir! -Absolutely, sir!
With difficulty, the lieutenant squirmed in his seat and the door, afraid to just look at his chief. Usually calm, poised, sharp-tongued, full of sarcastic comments... Now, George Stacey was nothing like himself.
Furious, red with rage, with dilated pupils and with such an aura of anger that anyone would have been afraid to be near him and Lieutenant Jim Kitten sincerely sympathised with the person on whose soul this embodiment of justice was being carried.
-I hear gunshots! Tell the others.
The fleeting order didn't take Stacy off the road for a moment.
-"Stand by, it's very hot out there.
As Jim listened to the reports and confirmations, he heard the sounds of gunfire coming from the area ahead. Though in his mind he began to associate it with fighting. Machine guns rang out, bursting and frightening the whole neighbourhood.
-Fucking hell," the police captain cursed through his teeth and pushed the pedal to the floor, accelerating again, breaking the last decency of driving in a densely populated city, "call for a helicopter and have a second SWAT team ready.
-Got it, sir-
Jim was afraid to argue with his immediate superior. Normally, Stacy gave him a chance to speak his mind, allowing him to learn by arguing, but now it was clear that any word could provoke an extremely aggressive reaction.
The nemesis of modern crime. That was the opinion of many in the department and Kitten himself, to himself, had always agreed with such a formulation...
Until they found themselves near the most troubled neighbourhood in the city, almost crashing into a house. Pulling out onto the pavement, George jumped out of the car, cocking his head to the sky, grabbing his hair.
The captain had his gun clutched in one hand, while the other began to slide down his face, crawling under his coat to his cherished packet of cigarettes.
-Fuck...
Jim couldn't remember which of the two of them had said it, so astonishing was the sight before them.
Marcy House Heights, New York's ghetto, a hotbed of illegals, dealers, gangsters, and other scum, sometimes to the point of being so blatantly scum that it was frightening. Rare police raids, lawlessness and the power of force.... All this made Marcy House a real cloaca of a city where marginalised people flocked.
Fearless, sincerely confident in their impunity and righteousness, the residents of the neighbourhood could simply send a patrol to the place and only large forces could do something here. What could they do, though? More and more laws restrained the hands of law enforcement officers, protecting outright criminals when the latter exposed themselves as victims of police brutality. The bastards had been setting up their lair for years under a liberal cloak. One had to proceed with extreme caution, manoeuvring carefully through the laws, privileges and gangs that populated Marcy House.
-AAAH!
But definitely not today. Right now, everything they'd been taught by their much older and more experienced comrades was on the back burner, because while Jimi was thinking about the peculiarities of the local ghetto, there was a horror going on in the buildings.
Shots rang out, flooding the corridors of the houses with lead as something raced between them. The thugs screamed in terror, sometimes forgetting all the slang, language and accents, speaking in normal English. Like ants, they ran everywhere, trying to get out of the neighbourhood that was becoming a trap. The five interconnected buildings were cut off from the rest, allowing the few normal residents to watch the "performance."
-This... What's that?
Taking a step back, Kitten took another look at the piled-up vehicles. A veritable roller coaster of painted bandit cars littered the entrances and exits. Crumpled beyond recognition, they formed a complete fence around the ghetto.
And he got an answer pretty quickly.
One of the local gopniks, shaking his machine gun, ran out onto the balcony, aiming deep into the room. The guy was shaking. Dressed in a stretched, dirty T-shirt and huge trousers hanging from his arse, he was pointing his muzzle in the direction of the flat he had run out of, shouting something about demons.
But then a glass window burst a floor below, and at breakneck speed a huge mechanical claw grabbed the Negro by the back, dragging him down with it.
The picture from a real horror film shocked all the arriving employees, who had already managed to take positions and cordon off the scene of the fight.
Looking at each other, the policemen froze in indecision, not knowing what to do next. Even the former SWAT officers crumpled awkwardly, comparing the odds with the incomprehensible creature.
-Captain? Sir? Sir?
-Continue to cordon off the area and get the civilians out. Assault teams, prepare to move out!
-AAH! NOOOOOO!
One of the bandits tried to jump out of a second-story window, but a creepy, skittish limb caught him in mid-air, pulling him back into the house.
And the battle continued. The pockets of resistance were constantly shifting, moving the gunfire to another part of the house or to a neighbouring building. Unable to find a way out, the stoned and frightened criminals scurried around like mice in a maze as they were slowly being fished out one by one. Several times they repeated the situation with escape through the windows, but now such "escapees" were taken in by the police, which they were overjoyed.Jim took one of them himself, pawing a fat African man who didn't even resist! His folds of fat shook in time with his jaws. He could barely control his eyes, which were constantly darting around as if afraid that at any second they would come for him again, and Kitten couldn't blame him.
Even just watching from the sidelines, he felt a growing horror, and what was going on in the heads of these junkies who had never been properly repulsed and had become game in an instant?
***
Shaking off the dust and dirt from my hands, I shot the sticky foam one more time, securing the last runner just in case.
The speedy bastard was so fast in the straight corridor that I was momentarily confused and frozen in a stupor. Easily jumping over the debris of furniture and walls, he raced towards the exit to the next building, leaving his mates behind. A guy like that should be competing in the Olympics, not all this. But in the end he was in my grasp, too, shot at the corner, slamming into the wall.
"Negroes are quick, they don't go into sports for nothing."
I felt light and pleasant. The gloomy atmosphere faded into the background as soon as I finished my hunt and caught all the criminals. Of course, some of them might have escaped at the very beginning, not having time to succumb to the herd instinct, but that was nothing compared to the abundance of prey that I had managed to catch.
And with the news coverage of the clash and the mayhem, the police would be able to scour the ghetto to the last dusty corner, pulling out tonnes of evidence.
The best part is that they managed to do it without overkill and unnecessary self-mutilation. Yes, there were injuries, there were fractures, and maybe some of these guys will always have a reminder of this day.... Apart from the grey hairs.
You couldn't see my smile through the mask. Wide and toothy and happy.
But it went like clockwork. Nearly a hundred and fifty shitheads, all of them survived, and I got to try out my new powers in action. And you know what I'll tell you? It was too easy. Fear of the bastards, superior strength, speed and stamina. Clean brains and pockets full of devices that made it easy to disarm the enemy.
-At this rate, hunting this kind of rubbish will become unseemly.
M-M-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-!
The negro glued to the wall shook his head, hoping we'd never meet again.
-Oh, you're not out?! -Oh, you're not out?! I'd better fix that.
-M-M-M-M-M!
The tentacle curved round and slapped the guy, knocking him out with precision.
-Better than I expected," I said, listening to the careful, quiet footsteps flooding the neighbourhood, knowing that I should hurry up and leave Marcy House before Stacy, infuriated by my antics, shot me.
But before I left, one of the tentacles pulled out a small stencil from behind my back, and then the second manipulator filled it with black paint, leaving my signature mark that I'd been missing from the city for six months.
-That's better.
```
patreon.com/posts/become-hero-in-127390237