MARVELS
Streets of New York
New York City. A glittering labyrinth of steel, glass, and shadows. The very pulse of the city beats in rhythm with millions of hopes, struggles, and secrets. Every day brings with it a new tale waiting to be written, a new twist around every corner. Here in the big city, where ordinary men and women walk in the shadow of masked giants, life is rarely as it seems, though. Beneath the lights of Broadway, where the glow of Times Square fades into the gloom of the boroughs, the city becomes something else—a battleground where power is the only language spoken.
On the streets of New York, crime doesn't just survive—it thrives.
On the streets of New York, crime doesn't just survive—it thrives.
The Bar With No Name
No Street Address
Lower East Side, Manhattan
"Close the door, will ya?" said the surly bartender, an annoyed scowl on his face at the massive trenchcoated figure that stood in the doorway. "Ya think I'm tryin' ta heat up the whole friggin' block?"
With a grunt, the large man at the door stepped inside. As he closed the door, the rushing of outside traffic and the howling of a cold winter wind gave way to trashy rock music, the murmur of patrons at their tables, the clinking of glasses, and the odd thok of a dart hitting the board on the back wall of the small, dingy hole-in-the-wall.
The huge figure took up a pretty significant amount of what little free space was left in the bar, which drew more than a few dirty looks from patrons as he bumped and shoved his way past them. Underneath the tent-sized trenchcoat, the man was covered in thick brown armored plates that clacked and rattled as he moved. Anywhere else, this alone would draw stares. But given the garish outfits of most of the others, the man seemed right at home.
The Bar With No Name was a pretty dismal dive, the latest in a long line of dive bars with a similar lack of a title. It changed locations every so often, to keep the heat away from cops or capes. Sometimes it was in the basement of an old restaurant, sometimes the backroom of a warehouse, sometimes the basement of a condemned tenement house, sometimes even an abandoned hideout. Nobody ever wrote down where it was, and its clientele only knew of it through word of mouth. It was a speakeasy, a secret bar and lounge for a very specific type of customer.
Criminal enforcers. Costumed super-villains and their equally colorful henchmen. Assassins and gun-runners and two-bit thugs. If you knew where to find the Bar With No Name, odds were that it's because you're one of the "bad guys."
The enormous armor-plated man who lurched towards the bar was one such bad guy. Normally, his presence would leave people intimidated. Tonight, however, he drew quite a few looks of pity.
"Jeez, Dillo," the bartender said as he reached for a bottle of something strong. "You don't look so hot."
Antonio Rodriguez, the brutish armored villain known to the world as the Armadillo, grunted. Several of the thick armored plates that covered his body were cracked, chipped, or split, and he was still covered in a thin layer of masonry dust and pebbles that could have only come from rubble. His right eye was swollen shut, his lower lip was fat and split, and a red-brown crust of dried blood stained his nostrils.
"Thanks," he said sarcastically, "I don't feel so hot."
The bartender nodded, pouring a shot of something that would put down a horse. "First shot's on me, big fella."
Armadillo began to sit down at one of the bar stools, then quickly stood back up when he heard the wooden stool pop and splinted under his weight. With an embarrassed and irritated snarl, he snatched up the tiny shot glass in his massive front paw, and downed it.
"So what gives?" the bartender asked. "You just go another round with the Thing or somethin?"
"No," Rodriguez shook his head. "Just some punk kid."
"You're tellin' me some random kid did that to you?" he asked, disbelieving.
"Got a job to clear out a place in Hamilton Heights," Armadillo said. "Just a small-time hideout filled with some nobodies my client wanted out of the way. Should've been easy-- kick down the door, make a big noise, send them running, y'know?"
"So what happened?"
Armadillo grunted, then reached into a pocket of his trenchcoat and produced a small glass vial.
"Ever seen this shit before?"
With a grunt, the large man at the door stepped inside. As he closed the door, the rushing of outside traffic and the howling of a cold winter wind gave way to trashy rock music, the murmur of patrons at their tables, the clinking of glasses, and the odd thok of a dart hitting the board on the back wall of the small, dingy hole-in-the-wall.
The huge figure took up a pretty significant amount of what little free space was left in the bar, which drew more than a few dirty looks from patrons as he bumped and shoved his way past them. Underneath the tent-sized trenchcoat, the man was covered in thick brown armored plates that clacked and rattled as he moved. Anywhere else, this alone would draw stares. But given the garish outfits of most of the others, the man seemed right at home.
The Bar With No Name was a pretty dismal dive, the latest in a long line of dive bars with a similar lack of a title. It changed locations every so often, to keep the heat away from cops or capes. Sometimes it was in the basement of an old restaurant, sometimes the backroom of a warehouse, sometimes the basement of a condemned tenement house, sometimes even an abandoned hideout. Nobody ever wrote down where it was, and its clientele only knew of it through word of mouth. It was a speakeasy, a secret bar and lounge for a very specific type of customer.
Criminal enforcers. Costumed super-villains and their equally colorful henchmen. Assassins and gun-runners and two-bit thugs. If you knew where to find the Bar With No Name, odds were that it's because you're one of the "bad guys."
The enormous armor-plated man who lurched towards the bar was one such bad guy. Normally, his presence would leave people intimidated. Tonight, however, he drew quite a few looks of pity.
"Jeez, Dillo," the bartender said as he reached for a bottle of something strong. "You don't look so hot."
Antonio Rodriguez, the brutish armored villain known to the world as the Armadillo, grunted. Several of the thick armored plates that covered his body were cracked, chipped, or split, and he was still covered in a thin layer of masonry dust and pebbles that could have only come from rubble. His right eye was swollen shut, his lower lip was fat and split, and a red-brown crust of dried blood stained his nostrils.
"Thanks," he said sarcastically, "I don't feel so hot."
The bartender nodded, pouring a shot of something that would put down a horse. "First shot's on me, big fella."
Armadillo began to sit down at one of the bar stools, then quickly stood back up when he heard the wooden stool pop and splinted under his weight. With an embarrassed and irritated snarl, he snatched up the tiny shot glass in his massive front paw, and downed it.
"So what gives?" the bartender asked. "You just go another round with the Thing or somethin?"
"No," Rodriguez shook his head. "Just some punk kid."
"You're tellin' me some random kid did that to you?" he asked, disbelieving.
"Got a job to clear out a place in Hamilton Heights," Armadillo said. "Just a small-time hideout filled with some nobodies my client wanted out of the way. Should've been easy-- kick down the door, make a big noise, send them running, y'know?"
"So what happened?"
Armadillo grunted, then reached into a pocket of his trenchcoat and produced a small glass vial.
"Ever seen this shit before?"
Giuseppe's Eatery
Old Town, Staten Island
"My friends," rasped the withered man in an impeccable Armani suit at the head of a long dining table, "I have received some news that may change the way our game is played."
A nervous young waitress wordlessly filled a glass with deep red wine and set it down at the table by the old man, then excused herself. As she passed, a few of the other diners at the table gave her salacious glances, made obscene comments, reached out to get handsy, until the old man rapped his fist against the table to bring them all back in line.
Each man at the table was a lifelong criminal, many of whom oversaw million-dollar operations of extortion, racketeering, prostitution, drug running, and worse. Collectively, they made up most of New York’s branch of the Maggia, an international criminal syndicate composed of some of the oldest and most powerful crime families in the world.
Every boss within the Maggia had gotten where they were by being ruthless, vicious, cunning and cruel. None, however, were as ruthless, as vicious, cunning, or as cruel as the old man at the head of the table.
Silvio Manfredi, known to the world as Silvermane, once reigned supreme over every criminal enterprise in New York. While his power had waned with the arrival of the costumed heroes and villains, and the Maggia had been ousted from their seat of power by the rise of Wilson Fisk, Manfredi and his under-bosses still held significant ground.
”Ever since Wilson Fisk, that fat figlio di puttana,” Silvermane swore in his native Italian, ”took from us what is ours…our territory, our money, our rightful place at the top of this city…we’ve had to make do with less. Settle for being only the second best at what we do. Keep our heads down when some scassacazzo in spandex flies overhead. Tell ourselves it was only temporary, that we’d be back in business some distant day…”
Manfredi straightened up. Underneath his expensive suit, the electronic whirs of servos and plastic creak of artificial muscles hinted at the extensive cybernetics the decrepit old man had given himself.
”That day, gentlemen, is today,” Silvio said. ”I’ve just received information that will let us take back what all of those pezzi di merda have stolen from us. This, my friends, is not a friendly catch-up meeting. This is a war council…”
A nervous young waitress wordlessly filled a glass with deep red wine and set it down at the table by the old man, then excused herself. As she passed, a few of the other diners at the table gave her salacious glances, made obscene comments, reached out to get handsy, until the old man rapped his fist against the table to bring them all back in line.
Each man at the table was a lifelong criminal, many of whom oversaw million-dollar operations of extortion, racketeering, prostitution, drug running, and worse. Collectively, they made up most of New York’s branch of the Maggia, an international criminal syndicate composed of some of the oldest and most powerful crime families in the world.
Every boss within the Maggia had gotten where they were by being ruthless, vicious, cunning and cruel. None, however, were as ruthless, as vicious, cunning, or as cruel as the old man at the head of the table.
Silvio Manfredi, known to the world as Silvermane, once reigned supreme over every criminal enterprise in New York. While his power had waned with the arrival of the costumed heroes and villains, and the Maggia had been ousted from their seat of power by the rise of Wilson Fisk, Manfredi and his under-bosses still held significant ground.
”Ever since Wilson Fisk, that fat figlio di puttana,” Silvermane swore in his native Italian, ”took from us what is ours…our territory, our money, our rightful place at the top of this city…we’ve had to make do with less. Settle for being only the second best at what we do. Keep our heads down when some scassacazzo in spandex flies overhead. Tell ourselves it was only temporary, that we’d be back in business some distant day…”
Manfredi straightened up. Underneath his expensive suit, the electronic whirs of servos and plastic creak of artificial muscles hinted at the extensive cybernetics the decrepit old man had given himself.
”That day, gentlemen, is today,” Silvio said. ”I’ve just received information that will let us take back what all of those pezzi di merda have stolen from us. This, my friends, is not a friendly catch-up meeting. This is a war council…”
Penthouse B
Olympia DUMBO
Front Street, Brooklyn
The view from the veranda was striking, the hard points and spires of the Manhattan skyline across the river mirrored into a soft glittering blur in the water. Swirling a glass of chardonnay in one hand and holding her phone in the other, the raven-haired woman paced back and forth, listening to her contact speak.
”And you’re sure this is accurate?” Whitney Frost asked between sips of wine.
”Yes, Madame,” came the voice on the other end of the line. ”They’re going over the details now, but it sounds like Manfredi really wants this. So much that he’s going to make a move on Fisk, on you, on…well, everyone!”
The lips of Whitney Frost curved upwards into a grin. Underneath that supposed face, a golden featureless mask remained stone-still. Whitney Frost was the public name of Giuletta Nefaria, heiress to the Nefaria crime family and her own significant portion of the Maggia syndicate, and better known as Madame Masque.
”You’ve done well,” Frost assured her contact. ”If the old men want a war, they’ll find I’m more than ready for it…”
”And you’re sure this is accurate?” Whitney Frost asked between sips of wine.
”Yes, Madame,” came the voice on the other end of the line. ”They’re going over the details now, but it sounds like Manfredi really wants this. So much that he’s going to make a move on Fisk, on you, on…well, everyone!”
The lips of Whitney Frost curved upwards into a grin. Underneath that supposed face, a golden featureless mask remained stone-still. Whitney Frost was the public name of Giuletta Nefaria, heiress to the Nefaria crime family and her own significant portion of the Maggia syndicate, and better known as Madame Masque.
”You’ve done well,” Frost assured her contact. ”If the old men want a war, they’ll find I’m more than ready for it…”
Lorenzini Mansion
Beechhurst, Queens
”You sure this is legit?” asked the fascinatingly ugly man, looking up from the report he’d been handed by the trembling underling that stood before his desk. ”I don’t got a lotta patience for people who interrupt my evening ta give me rumors.”
”I-it’s legit, s-sir, I swear!” the aide said. ”W-we were able to g-get this from our guys in the NYPD, and they s-said that th-this is what the cops found!”
”Hmmm,” the man seated at the desk said, scratching the completely flat top of his head. ”Could mean trouble. Could also mean opportunity…”
The gangster known only to the world as Hammerhead projected an image of an old-timey thug, someone who only communicated through displays of brute force. Those who spent any time in the criminal underworld, however, knew that the man with the unbreakable skull was far more clever and canny than most gave him credit for. Hammerhead was capable of intricate planning, and surprising acts of subterfuge and guile…
…however, he also knew full well the value of a good display of brute force.
”Put the word out to the boys,” he said. ”Things are about to get loud…”
”I-it’s legit, s-sir, I swear!” the aide said. ”W-we were able to g-get this from our guys in the NYPD, and they s-said that th-this is what the cops found!”
”Hmmm,” the man seated at the desk said, scratching the completely flat top of his head. ”Could mean trouble. Could also mean opportunity…”
The gangster known only to the world as Hammerhead projected an image of an old-timey thug, someone who only communicated through displays of brute force. Those who spent any time in the criminal underworld, however, knew that the man with the unbreakable skull was far more clever and canny than most gave him credit for. Hammerhead was capable of intricate planning, and surprising acts of subterfuge and guile…
…however, he also knew full well the value of a good display of brute force.
”Put the word out to the boys,” he said. ”Things are about to get loud…”
LTL Motors
Melrose, the Bronx
"Every one of you is here,” the pale-skinned man said in a voice as deep and dark as the grave, "because I saw you understood what I did. That life is cold as ice and hard as marble. That you will not be handed things just because you want them, or think you deserve them. That if you want anything in this world, anything worth having…you just take it.”
Alonzo Lincoln, feared across the city under the name Tombstone, addressed the members of his gang. Each of them wore all black, and had their faces painted to resemble skulls. This wasn’t just their colors; it was warpaint. It was a message to anyone who stood in their way: when you crossed Tombstone, a tombstone would be all that was left of you.
”The balance of power in this city is about to shift,” Tombstone continued, ”You know what’s coming out on the streets now. I will know where it’s coming from, I will know who’s making it…and I will take ownership of it myself.”
Tombstone looked at his men, some of whom were excited by this new development, others nervous.
”Make no mistake,” he continued, ”There is no cost I consider too great, no lines I will not cross. There is an opportunity here to seize power like never before here…and we will take it.”
Alonzo Lincoln, feared across the city under the name Tombstone, addressed the members of his gang. Each of them wore all black, and had their faces painted to resemble skulls. This wasn’t just their colors; it was warpaint. It was a message to anyone who stood in their way: when you crossed Tombstone, a tombstone would be all that was left of you.
”The balance of power in this city is about to shift,” Tombstone continued, ”You know what’s coming out on the streets now. I will know where it’s coming from, I will know who’s making it…and I will take ownership of it myself.”
Tombstone looked at his men, some of whom were excited by this new development, others nervous.
”Make no mistake,” he continued, ”There is no cost I consider too great, no lines I will not cross. There is an opportunity here to seize power like never before here…and we will take it.”
Fisk Tower
42nd Street
Midtown, Manhattan
”Good evening, sir,” said the brown-haired man in a sharp suit and tie, a tablet in hand as he entered the penthouse office. ”May I assume you’ve already been appraised of the situation in–”
”Yes, Wesley, thank you,” Wilson Fisk said, gazing through the window of his tower at the seemingly endless sprawl of the city below. ”You have more details for me?”
Wilson Fisk, one of the most powerful and influential figures in New York City, had risen to power quickly, but his takeover of corporate empires and his coup in the criminal underworld were both so complete that it felt to many that he had simply always been there. At first glance, one look at his enormous frame would suggest him to be a morbidly fat man, but a closer look showed an almost inhuman amount of muscle, giving him strength enough to contend with even superhumans hand-to-hand. In much the same way, a first glance of Wilson Fisk the philanthropic industrialist gave the image of a rich well-to-do playboy with grand designs for the city he loved, but a look beyond the surface showed one of the most formidable and heartless men the city had ever seen.
”I do, sir,” his confidant nodded, handing the tablet to the massive man in white. ”The responses from the Manfredi and Nefaria families are just as you’ve predicted. No word yet from Lincoln or Hammerhead, but we can assume they’ll call for action quickly. I have several of our usual contacts on standby. Should we move to–”
”Not just yet,” the Kingpin of Crime answered. ”A wise man once said, ‘never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.’ Silvermane, Masque, Tombstone, Hammerhead, are all rushing into disaster. They will throw this city into chaos, and their actions will spur reactions that they can barely imagine, let alone predict.”
”Understood, sir,” Wesley nodded, ”But in the event that one of them manages to get their hands on–”
”They won’t,” Fisk said simply. ”I’ll make sure of that. This new development will destabilize the current situation, yes, which is why it is all the more important that we keep our footing sure. When the situation becomes too unstable, when the others all teeter on the edge of collapse…I will push them over that edge one by one. And when all is said and done, I won’t merely be the most powerful player in this game, but the only one left standing.”
”Yes, Wesley, thank you,” Wilson Fisk said, gazing through the window of his tower at the seemingly endless sprawl of the city below. ”You have more details for me?”
Wilson Fisk, one of the most powerful and influential figures in New York City, had risen to power quickly, but his takeover of corporate empires and his coup in the criminal underworld were both so complete that it felt to many that he had simply always been there. At first glance, one look at his enormous frame would suggest him to be a morbidly fat man, but a closer look showed an almost inhuman amount of muscle, giving him strength enough to contend with even superhumans hand-to-hand. In much the same way, a first glance of Wilson Fisk the philanthropic industrialist gave the image of a rich well-to-do playboy with grand designs for the city he loved, but a look beyond the surface showed one of the most formidable and heartless men the city had ever seen.
”I do, sir,” his confidant nodded, handing the tablet to the massive man in white. ”The responses from the Manfredi and Nefaria families are just as you’ve predicted. No word yet from Lincoln or Hammerhead, but we can assume they’ll call for action quickly. I have several of our usual contacts on standby. Should we move to–”
”Not just yet,” the Kingpin of Crime answered. ”A wise man once said, ‘never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.’ Silvermane, Masque, Tombstone, Hammerhead, are all rushing into disaster. They will throw this city into chaos, and their actions will spur reactions that they can barely imagine, let alone predict.”
”Understood, sir,” Wesley nodded, ”But in the event that one of them manages to get their hands on–”
”They won’t,” Fisk said simply. ”I’ll make sure of that. This new development will destabilize the current situation, yes, which is why it is all the more important that we keep our footing sure. When the situation becomes too unstable, when the others all teeter on the edge of collapse…I will push them over that edge one by one. And when all is said and done, I won’t merely be the most powerful player in this game, but the only one left standing.”
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