[IC] MARVELS: Streets of New York

[Ezekiel]

Gwen Stacy

My Own Ghost

Part Two

^{_{🕷"If we have to be haunted, we should befriend our ghosts. We should welcome them in, and let them make a home with us. Just because we're ghost stories, that doesn't mean we're over. Legends never die." 🕷}}

---

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.

[Courtaud]

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.

[Eddie Brock]

Peter Parker's ordinary life was turned upside-down by a fateful bite from a radioactive spider. Inheriting the arachnid’s awesome power, he sought fame and fortune before learning – to much sorrow – that with great power, there must also come great responsibility! From that day forth, he made a solemn vow to use his gifts for the benefit of others. Though his true identity is kept secret, all who live in the Five Boroughs know the name of…

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.”