---

Gwen’s next quip had been halfway formed when the blur of white and shadow had descended from the rooftop, colliding with one of the gunmen in a brutal dropkick. She hadn’t needed her Spider-Sense to tell her he wasn’t part of the heist crew.

“Okay, dramatic entrance points: solid nine,” she muttered, watching the caped figure land and immediately launch into a whirlwind of baton strikes. His movements had been fluid but vicious—less acrobatic than her own style, but relentless, each swing measured to incapacitate as quickly as possible.

One of the remaining gunmen turned his rifle toward the newcomer, and Gwen reacted instinctively. With a flick of her wrist, a web had shot out, snagging the weapon’s barrel and yanking it skyward just as it fired. The shot went wide, shattering a streetlight above.

"Hey now, we're not shooting the guest star," she called out, swinging low and slamming both feet into the guy’s chest, sending him sprawling. That's when she got a better view of the newly arrived and impromptu backup, mask she recognised, at least close enough, from a particularly famous set of low budget but beloved campy movies from back home. "Is that...a Moon Knight costume?" So stunned by the revelation was she, that she entirely missed the trickle of spidersense which attempted to warn her about the incoming strike, only at the last moment turned her head to see a fist being swung towards her. "Wooooo there," She called out, ducking under the blow, before swinging out the man's feet with her own leg letting him hit the ground hard enough to stun him. [color=FF1493]"No way, my old roommate used to love those films." She called out to the new figure, finally turning to regard the truck that had been under attack, and exhaling in a weary sigh at the logo printed across the doors of the armoured vehicle. Oscorp.

"I guess some things are the same." Gwen grumbled, hands falling to her hips as she considered her next move.

Punisher War Journal

This class of criminal is embarrassing. Not only are they the usual run of gutter trash, they have no decorum. No class. No sense of organization. Instead they stand around with their junk in their hands, trying to out intimidate each other. They lean against shipping containers with the obvious goal of looking the most badass. None of them are. When I get my hands throttled around them later, they'll know where they stand in the pecking order. They'll drip cowardice down their pant legs and cry out for their mothers - even though they were wearing "really cool sunglasses."

When I lock in a fresh clip to the SIG-Sauer, it almost hisses. She's as anxious to Punish as I am. I could wipe out this whole group of them from this distance, but then they would scatter. Some tough guy would turn and start blind firing. He wouldn't hit me, wouldn't come close. Instead he would just distract me from breaking the bones of all of his compatriots. Delay that sweet sweet moment where I get to hear legs snap out of the skinbags they were slagged in.

I have to wait to hear more. Micro has already maxed out the distance volume on the sound tracers. I can hear every wheeze of these idiots asthma and shudder in the cold all while keeping them thoroughly in scope. What I'm waiting for is to hear a little more information. There are things that these monsters would say to each other easily, things they'd only say to me after I show them my bone-saw. And my bone-saw is ready.

After about 30 minutes of pointless jawing, they finally bring up what I need them to. Sinister. A new type of inhalant that works with the same sort of physics as the rebreather of a scuba mask. Disgusting. More drugs to sink deeper into the cesspool of their own minds. A part of me feels remorse - their lives as worthless as cracks in pavement, and this drug the one thing that brings them some sort of peace from that reality. They will find no peace. Not while I still breathe. Not while there is still air in my lungs. They won't be allowed to sleep until I am dead. Between now and then, there is only punishment.



The War Journal isn't always written down. Sometimes, Frank Castle just narrates in his own head. Or less of a narration and more of an internal death march. A man as lonely as Frank (although he wouldn't exactly admit it) has to keep a conversation going in his head, otherwise all he will see and hear are the bloody deaths of his family. With things as bad as they are, Frank Castle has to do what he can to stay sane. The success of this is up for debate. Frank Castle will tell you he's the sanest man in the City. This part is not up for debate - he is in fact furthest from it. Psychologically speaking.

With a flash of a muzzle, the chaos reigns. Gunfire and punishment, hailing down like gods fury in the old testament. The dozen or so dealers gathered around an open trunk immediately draw their heat, looking around in a panic. Cops wouldn't just open fire like this. Not a mask either. Maybe another gang? Or else...him.

A young looking man with a lip piercing calls out to his heavy on his left, only to have the top half of his head shredded in a shotgun blast. He was mid-vowel. His friend screams and turns, thinks he makes it a few steps but it's just the dying thoughts as his synapses fire off their last - his guts hit the pavement before even his knees, as he falls face first in his own spilled viscera.

It's over in only an instant.

12 men splayed across the shipping yard docks, the car in which handled the merchandise honking an embarrassing alarm, as if having it's own seizure. Castle fired into the dashboard, putting out of it's misery (and warranty.)

He surveyed his own work. Saw blood already spattered across his white boots. It looked good. He admired his handiwork for a moment before he heard a buzz in his ear. Micro on comms, likely out of the mobile command center. "The Battle Van" he liked to call it. The Punisher clicked the confirmation button on his earpiece, alerting Micro that he was available and listening.

"Castle. Got an update regarding two of your flagged specials. Or at least possibly. First: rumor is that Eddie Brock is back in town. The Lethal Protector. Given enough time, we should be able to track him easier, set up some sort of hello." Micro sounded eager, excited. He usually only sounded this way when he had actual intel for Frank.

"Second, the Police have reported a stiff - drained of blood completely. It's the M.O of the living vampire. Could be he's got his ire up again."

"Who was the victim?" Frank asked, his voice gruff, short, stern.

"TBD. If it's not Morbius, it's someone a lot like him."

Frank considered this.

"If he's out there killing innocents, then he'll be as dead as lip-piercing over here. I need a lift. Bring the van. We're taking some of this back with us. That drug - Sinister. Take a look at it and let me know what you think. Or find someone who can." Frank closed his comms. He didn't need to tell Micro where he was, the guy was an incredible hacker - a whiz with anything computer related. He'd find him soon enough.

And then Frank has a couple people of his own to find.

Parker Residence
Chelsea, Manhattan

Then.

Aunt May always used to say, “Our choices make us who we are.” A wise woman, that May Parker. For instance: do I go to the pep rally with all my classmates, or do I take a bus halfway across town to catch the science expo? Do I use my newfound powers for good, or to make a quick buck? Do I stop the robber? How do I spend the rest of my life making up for that one mistake? What do I do when the whole city's against me… when I lose faith in myself… when I can't protect the ones I love? Where do I find the strength to carry on? Choices. In the end, that's all we are.

“Green or blue?”

Mary Jane grins up at me. I've made a lot of choices in my life – most of them bad – but she's the best of ‘em by a country mile. I truly don't know what I ever did to deserve this woman. Even now, in her “knock around” clothes, with her hair a tangle of crimson curls, I can't envision a more perfect sight. I suppose it's all part and parcel of marrying a literal supermodel. Her eyes leave mine, considering the shirts in less time than it takes me to sneeze. “Blue. You're really nervous, aren't you?”

“Not at all,” I lie. It's funny: I routinely leap from tall buildings trusting in a device I first prototyped at 15, there are honest-to-God supervillains out there who know my name and face, and yet nothing makes me come unglued faster than a simple job interview. Shrugging into the chosen shirt, I start to button it up when one of them slips between sweaty fingers. Me, sweating!

Reaching up to pluck at one of my legendary cowlicks, MJ smiles and says, “Hey, they're gonna love you. Wanna know how I know?” She slides her hand down my cheek. “Because I love you. So just get out of that big head of yours, and show them who you are.”

This woman! She could make me believe I can move mountains – and for her, maybe I could. Showing my appreciation with a kiss, I then pause for a second and ask, “You mean ‘big’ in the metaphorical sense, right? Not ‘big’ like, ‘Oh my God, get a load of the melon on that guy!’” MJ just rolls her eyes, leaving me to finish getting dressed on my own.

With the help of Dr. Connors – the only former member of the Sinister Six on the Parker Christmas card list – I've secured an interview with the Dean of Science at Empire State University. After dropping out of postgrad years ago, I made myself a promise that one day I'd go back; I just never imagined it might be as a teacher, rather than as a student. Honestly, I don't know that I'm ready for this step… but I think it's past time that Peter Parker, not just Spider-Man, started giving back.

Slinging a messenger bag over my head, I start making for the front door when MJ whistles at me. “Forgetting something?” She walks up, holding something red loosely in her hand. Extending it my way, she says, “I don't really want to see pictures of you wearing a paper bag again.”

“That was one time,” I insist, taking my mask from her and slipping it in the bag. I give her another quick kiss for luck, take a deep breath, and then turn the knob.

“Hey!” MJ calls as I'm halfway out the door. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

---

Empire State University
Greenwich Village, Manhattan

Now.

One advantage to teaching at a school you once attended is that you already know the lay of the land. You never have to stop anybody for directions, you know where all the cleanest bathrooms are, and you know which buildings don't lock their roof access doors – if, like me, you happen to benefit from that sort of information. Landing on top of the Frenz School for the Arts building with a tumble, I quickly strip off my mask, gloves, and boots and start layering on my civilian clothes.

From there, it's a short sprint to the College of Science building. A good thing, too, as the ringing of the ESU clocktower alerts me that I'm running late. Again. I never can seem to shake that reputation… One of these days, I ought to take a look at rigging up an entrance for that rooftop instead. Would make coming and going much easier, although it's probably best that Spider-Man is never skulking around where Professor Parker is known to be.

I make it to Room 220 not a moment too soon, as some of my students have started gathering their things. “Uh-uh, not so fast!” I announce, bursting into the room. There's a performative groan as people start slumping back into their seats. I can only grin. “Almost had me that time. C'mon, you really thought I'd miss DNA day? Now, who's ready to talk nucleotides?” Another collective grumble, which I wave away.

It feels good being in front of a classroom again. My time at Midtown High was enlightening, if short. In retrospect, that highly-regimented schedule was never going to work with my other “job,” but it reignited a passion for science that had laid dormant for years; it's easy sometimes to forget that this world was my life long before there ever was a Spider-Man. It's nice to stop and smell the Bunsen burners again.

As ever, the minutes slip away faster than I anticipated. Much of this job comes naturally to me, but effective time management is one skill I've yet to master. I've prepared way more material than we have time to cover in a single lecture. On the bright side, the students at least seem fairly engaged – well, except for Jeremy Hinkle, who apparently thinks this is Napping 101. “Yes, Anastasia?” I say, calling on the spectacled girl in front as she raises her hand.

“I read something about topoisomerase inhibitors being used in chemotherapy. Can you explain how that works?”

I hesitate before responding, not due to the question itself but instead by something at the back of the room which draws my eye. There's a person sitting in the back row who's not enrolled in my course. A person I've not seen in quite some time. Realizing that Anastasia is waiting for a reply, I tear my eyes away and meet her concerned stare with a smile. “That's actually a fascinating explanation, but not one we have time for today. Maybe next class,” I explain.

I lock eyes with the figure in the back and then check my watch. “Actually, since time’s almost up, let's pause here for the day, gang,” I announce. “If we start getting into RNA now, I'll never let you leave.” That elicits a polite – if forced – chuckle from the class. I make sure to maintain a calm, disarming demeanor as I remind them about the reading for next time, though I doubt many hear me over the rustling of backpacks.

Once the classroom has emptied, I can approach my old acquaintance. “Been a while, Felicia,” I say, only slightly guarded. After all, it's not everyday the Black Cat pays you an unannounced visit. “If you've just signed up for the course, you should know my grading style is tough but fair.”

Morbius tightened his grip on the woman and turned his glowing crimson gaze toward Luke.

"Ah, yes." he rasped, his voice raw from the smoke but still laced with that wry, unshaken arrogance. "Because clearly, I thought to myself 'Why merely feed in the shadows when I could dramatically incinerate my meal in front of a crowd?'" He adjusted his stance, shifting the woman slightly in his grasp to better support her weight. The fire was worsening, embers cascading from the ceiling like dying stars. They had no time for this. "We both know I'm not the type to like my meat well-done, I am attempting to save this woman, not drain her." he continued, irritation creeping into his tone. "But if you’d rather we argue until the building collapses around us, by all means, please, continue with the threats."

His eyes flicked toward the nearest compromised wall. It wouldn't hold much longer. He met Luke's gaze again, his brow furrowed. Cage was a professional, much more experienced in saving folk from burning houses than he was. He didn't doubt that the hero for hire could probably save the woman and make it back in time to go toe-to-toe with him.

"If you truly wish to help, then I suggest we move. Now." He held the woman up with one arm, the other hand slyly extending the claws just in case Cage leapt in for a punch.

Ahhh, hell. Now that I'm thinkin' about it, I remember hearing stories about some kinda 'good vampire' runnin' around. What was the name- Morbid-something? Moebius, like the artist? Something like that.

So either I'm making threats at probably the only not-evil blood-sucker out there, or this guy's a regular-evil vampire pretending to be the not-evil one and hoping I can't tell the difference. Either way, I'm probably gonna come outta this looking like a jackass.

"Man," I shake my head, "You're lucky I ain't Blade. Hold up!"

One of the corners begins to buckle, and the roof threatens to cave in on us. I rush forward, bracing the structure as much as I can to keep a good ten tons of concrete and duct-work from crushing us.

"Nnnngh!" I grunt from the strain. Ten tons isn't even half of what I can press on a good day, but I'm already gettin' worn out, and the air's gettin' thin from the fire and smoke. It's even harder since I'm trying to do it all with one hand.

I've got my phone in the other, pulling up the H4H app, and more specifically the floor plans of this building from the database Danny's tech guys compiled for us.

"Okay," I say through ragged breaths as I hold up the collapsing ceiling, "There's a fire escape at the end of the hall, leads to the back alley. Should be able to get people to safety without drawin' too much attention to yourself. I've cleared out the lower floors, but there might be a few more folks up here. Don't open any closed doors-- don't wanna cause a backdraft."

A chunk of concrete breaks free and crashes hard into the floor. I feel the floor start to give way under my feet, and know that the rest is gonna start coming down any second.

"An' hey," I call out to the vampire, "You see a bigass tarantula crawlin' around on your way? You leave that little creep to me-- that one's personal."

---

_{Featuring: @Eddie Brock as Peter Parker}


I wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not officially. Not sentimentally. And yet, there I was—slipping through a side door with all the ease and subtlety of a shadow stretching under the frame. No one heard me. No one ever did unless I wanted them to.

With my hood pulled low and my hands tucked into my jacket pockets, I was just another figure sliding into a back-row seat, unnoticed and unassuming. The lecture hall was modest, though a couple dozen students sat hunched throughout the rows, taking notes, or pretending to. Like me, their focus was tethered to the man at the front of the room.

Peter Parker.

He hadn’t changed much. Not really. A little more stubble along the jawline, maybe. Softer eyes. But he carried himself differently now. Just… fuller. More settled. A man who has carved out a life and found a way to live inside it. Not the scrappy vigilante I used to swing rooftops with. Not the young man with guilt in his spine and too much weight on his shoulders. He stood straighter now and spoke with confidence. Dressed sharper, too. He even wore a wedding ring.

Mary Jane must’ve taught him to iron his shirts.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my position, and tried not to fidget. I wasn’t here to cause trouble. Still, I could feel an itch behind my ribs. That gnawing sensation that showed up every time I revisited the past.

I remembered rooftops and moonlight, gloved hands brushing mine as we passed stolen breath and banter like it was currency. I also remembered the exact moment it all fell apart. My sabotage always came gift-wrapped in charm, a talent I honed over many years.

I tamped down on my reverie. The past was a locked door—one I shouldn't try to pick.

He noticed me then.

It was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, but I caught the hesitation in his sentence, the hitch in his breath. His gaze lingered a second too long in my direction. Then, just like that, the lecture was winding down. Students filed out in the usual clatter—bags slung over shoulders, earbuds back in, caffeine-fueled conversations already moving on.

I stayed in my seat.

Peter crossed the room once it emptied, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t sure whether to greet me or call campus security. “Been a while, Felicia,” he said.

I smiled. Not the mischievous one I used to wear like perfume—just a soft curve at the corners of my mouth.

“Long enough for the world to spin a few times,” I replied.

He tilted his head. “If you've just signed up for the course, you should know my grading style is tough but fair.”

That got the faintest chuckle out of me. “Please, Parker. We both know I’d have the answer key before the semester began.”

"Assuming you haven't developed a sudden interest in biochemistry, then to what do I owe the pleasure?"

I stood slowly, every motion deliberate. Didn’t want him thinking I was there for the wrong reasons. Even if part of me wasn’t sure what the right ones were.

I reached into my jacket and pulled the vial from my inner pocket, holding it at eye level between us. The fluid shimmered in its little glass prison—iridescent, slick, unnatural—like someone had distilled a nightmare and added glitter.

"I need your help," I said, my voice soft, matter-of-fact.

"Huh... maybe a little biochemistry after all." Peter turned the vial slowly, watching the faint luster in the liquid shift as if hiding something. "Should I know what this is?"

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me. It’s weird. Which means it’s your wheelhouse.”

"Flattered you'd come to me, Felicia." His eyes flicked down to his watch for a beat, then back to mine.

I was intruding. I knew that. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have involved myself in his life again. He didn’t want me here, but Peter was a nice guy, and he’d never tell me to go away. It was one of his many traits that was both admirable and sweet. And exploitable.

I pushed down those thoughts, as well as the shameful regrets that still lurked.

Casting a pointed look at our somewhat open setting, I continued. “Look, I’ll happily tell you all I know, but not here. If you’ve got somewhere private, I’ll fill you in on this,” I plucked the vial from his grasp, “and the ghost that left it behind.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up just enough for me to know I had hooked him. He looked at me for a long second, then nodded.

"There's a vacant lab downstairs this period. If you've got time, we can hop in, have a look. I will have to insist that you wear safety goggles, though."

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Maybe the past was a locked door. Maybe it was a revolving one. Either way—I’d just stepped through it.

“Lead the way.”

Ahhh, hell. Now that I'm thinkin' about it, I remember hearing stories about some kinda 'good vampire' runnin' around. What was the name- Morbid-something? Moebius, like the artist? Something like that.

So either I'm making threats at probably the only not-evil blood-sucker out there, or this guy's a regular-evil vampire pretending to be the not-evil one and hoping I can't tell the difference. Either way, I'm probably gonna come outta this looking like a jackass.

"Man," I shake my head, "You're lucky I ain't Blade. Hold up!"

One of the corners begins to buckle, and the roof threatens to cave in on us. I rush forward, bracing the structure as much as I can to keep a good ten tons of concrete and duct-work from crushing us.

"Nnnngh!" I grunt from the strain. Ten tons isn't even half of what I can press on a good day, but I'm already gettin' worn out, and the air's gettin' thin from the fire and smoke. It's even harder since I'm trying to do it all with one hand.

I've got my phone in the other, pulling up the H4H app, and more specifically the floor plans of this building from the database Danny's tech guys compiled for us.

"Okay," I say through ragged breaths as I hold up the collapsing ceiling, "There's a fire escape at the end of the hall, leads to the back alley. Should be able to get people to safety without drawin' too much attention to yourself. I've cleared out the lower floors, but there might be a few more folks up here. Don't open any closed doors-- don't wanna cause a backdraft."

A chunk of concrete breaks free and crashes hard into the floor. I feel the floor start to give way under my feet, and know that the rest is gonna start coming down any second.

"An' hey," I call out to the vampire, "You see a bigass tarantula crawlin' around on your way? You leave that little creep to me-- that one's personal."

The floor vibrated beneath Morbius' feet, dust sifting down from the ceiling in thick, choking waves. The sound of strained steel and shifting concrete told him exactly what Cage had already realized, this place was about to come down.

Morbius adjusted the woman in his arms, crouching slightly as another burst of heat rolled through the hallway. He spared a glance toward Cage - back arched beneath the falling weight of a building, one arm extended skyward, the other thumbing through a phone with near-casual defiance. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, he was glad Cage believed him, even if it was under duress.

He shot him a nod in thanks, turning over his shoulder to face the fire escape at the end of the hallway and then glancing back at the hero-for-hire.
"Understood. I'll check the top floors for any survivors. Remind me to take your card sometime, Cage, you heroes for hire are a lot more organised than I gave you credit for." He pulled the woman up onto his shoulder. Another support beam buckled with a groan behind him. The building was dying. "And, no" he added with a slight glance back, a dry edge threading into his tone. "No tarantulas. But if I see any eight-legged creatures, I'll be sure to let them know Luke Cage sends his regards."

With that he lunged forward towards the fire escape, launching himself out of the window and down the fire escape, dropping himself down each railing with one hand while holding the woman with the other. He reached the ground and dropped her within distance of the gathering crowd, but far enough not to be seen. Her vision groggily began to come back to her in time to see the pale figure gently lay her down and shoot up against the wall of the opposite building, throwing himself each handhold and then finally into the night sky as he reached the top.

He turned, gliding a bit as he focused his senses into the building. He concentrated, using his psychic energy to drown out the noise of the fire and the yammering crowd, sending a sonar call bouncing off of the interior walls. For a moment he thought it was all for naught, that anyone left had escaped the blaze. And then he heard it, the coughing and crying of a child. His eyes burst open, he acted fast, diving down to the nearest window and corkscrewing his body through the glass.

He skidded against the floor on his shoulder, fire licking at his face as he pushed himself up off of the floor. The fire was rising, and the ground beneath him was collapsing.

He moved low, almost crawling, trailing smoke as he pressed through the wreckage. Every breath burned in his chest despite his mutated lungs, the sheer heat warping the air around him, pulling tears from his eyes that hissed and evaporated as they fell.

The child's sobs echoed through the smoke - somewhere to his right, down a corridor that looked more like a furnace than a hallway. A chunk of ceiling came crashing down just behind him, forcing him to leap forward, talons gouging into the wall to catch himself before his feet found the floor again.

"Hold on," he muttered under his breath. "I'm coming."

He found the child curled beneath an overturned metal desk, a thin line of blood running down his temple, his face streaked with soot. The fire had boxed him in, a ring of flames isolating the corner like a cage.

Morbius didn't hesitate. He flung his arm wide, the membrane of his glider-like wings snapping open as he charged through the fire. The heat clawed at his skin, blistering even him, but he pushed through, ducking down to rip the desk aside and scoop the child into his arms.

The floor gave out beneath his feet almost immediately.

He twisted midair, holding the boy tight as they plummeted. For one heart-pounding second, there was only the rush of air and falling debris, and then he latched onto the jagged edge of the floor below with one bloodied claw, swinging them into the next room with a grunt of exertion.

They landed hard, but alive.

The child coughed violently in his arms, but clung to Morbius with tiny, trembling fingers. There was no time for comfort. Another crack split the ceiling above them. The whole building was moments from collapse.

Morbius backed toward the shattered remnants of a window, eyeing the distance to the next rooftop. He'd done worse jumps. With one arm wrapped around the child, he leapt again out into the smoke-choked sky, wings unfurling to catch what lift they could.

He landed hard on the adjacent rooftop, knees buckling under the weight of the fall as he rolled with the boy in his arms, coming to a stop near the far edge of the building. He released the boy, crawling up to his feet as he coughed out smoke.

The boy stirred, sitting back and staring through hazy eyes at the figure that had rescued him. His small face was streaked with ash and blood, his hair singed and eyes wide, pupils darting across Morbius' features; taking in the monstrous eyes, the gaunt, predatory face, the fangs just barely hidden behind parted lips. The boy tensed, breath catching.

Morbius didn't speak. Didn't move. He just stared back, unmoving and still as a statue, the night wind catching the tattered edges of his wings. He didn't know what to say, what to do.

The boy blinked. Then sniffed, wiping a dirty sleeve across his face. His gaze lingered on Morbius' claws, the wings tucked tight to his back, the unnatural pallor of his skin.

"You're...not like the others." he squeeked. "You're weird."

Morbius raised one brow slightly. A smile playing on the corners of his lips.

The boy hesitated, then added, "But...you saved me."

Still, Morbius said nothing. But after a beat, he gave a small nod. The boy smiled back.

A commotion rose from the alley below, firefighters yelling, someone shouting for survivors. Lights flashed, illuminating the rooftop like lightning. Morbius stood, lifting the boy once more and crossing the roof in long, silent strides. At the edge, he paused, then dropped down between two buildings with barely a sound.

He set the boy down in the shadows near the first responders. A paramedic spotted him and broke into a run. The boy turned, glancing back. But Morbius was already gone, disappearing into the night.

M O O N K N I G H T
M O O N K N I G H T

I barely register that the woman says something about a Moon Knight costume, but it's odd enough to stick with me as I continue to beat on the thugs. Fighting is second nature to me. The rest of the world fades into the background. There's just me and the unfortunate bastards that I'm taking down. I bat away a rifle barrel with one baton while bringing the other up into the crook's chin, snapping his head back and allowing me to deliver a kick to his chest that sends him stumbling onto his ass.

That should be the last of them.

"No way, my old roommate used to love those films."

I look back to the woman who's standing in front of the truck and examining the Oscorp logo on it. She mentioned a Moon Knight costume earlier, as if there would be costumes of me after some of my... Less than pleasant episodes. And now she's talking about movies? All I can muster up in response to her is: "... What? What are you talking about?"