Hound55 — Roleplayer Guild

Sitting on top of the world, a city at your feet.

Peter sat atop Steinway Tower soaking in the vibes of the full length of Central Park, a hotdog scooped from a swing-by of 'Frankies on the Go' in a gloved hand.  His mask peeled up, with the new vocal nodes left away from skin contact, exposing his fresh face to the winds of the altitude from the supertall spire.

"Now that's a view you can't buy."  The teen uttered.  "Coupled with a meal even I could."

A perfect afternoon.  The kind of view that helped Peter mull over problems, followed by the web-swing home to help forget them.

And money would solve most of them.

He'd been privvy to the family's book-keeping the last year and a half.  Aunt May had wanted to keep them from him - 'he's too young, there'll always be time for that later', but it had been important to Ben that he have a tangible sense of the daily responsibilities that came to the home.

Over the last six months, it was less that they'd show him to keep him informed, and more they'd rely on his keen eye and mind to do the final checks on the figures.

A large chunk of the lump sum they'd received when he had passed had disappeared in funeral fees.  Peter's medical bills from the field trip to Oscorp was another hit, albeit in some ways timely.  They were leaking money.  Not a lot.  But steadily.  And beyond that, they really should have some kind of emergency funds as well.

He needed a job.  He'd been talking a lot about unpaid internship and how much it could help him with his college applications.  He was targeting a scholarship to ESU or MIT, with CalTech also a consideration.  But that had field had narrowed to ESU with Uncle Ben's death.  He couldn't leave her alone now.

And even that was going to be a tricky bullseye to hit, despite his grades.  He began to feel guilty over all of his talk around the dinnertable about the internship.  The school had approached him with a few choices - Oscorp, which he now viewed as off the table, and a second fringe candidate which seemed more appealing the more he thought on it.

Dr Curt Conners worked in a smaller lab for an unlisted company 'New U Technologies'.  He was a former ESU alumnus himself and considered in very good standing.  So much so, he still lectured in two specialised fields of advanced biochemistry a year - whether this was to maintain a connection to the graduate pipeline, or to keep his tenure and qualifications in check, Peter couldn't be sure, but it meant that the relationship with his target school was still there one way or the other.

It seemed a perfect offer for his own specific situation, and he was extremely grateful when Mr Warren informed of the internship offer.

But that would take time.  And time he could be earning money.

If he had a job.  Which he didn't.  But certainly should have.

The smartboard in his brain had lines through MIT and CalTech, a circle around ESU - but tangents from a growing string of extracurriculars he'd likely have to cull which were propping up his academic scholarship bid were on shaky ground from the potential hit to his spare time.

Internship, Science Club, Science Olympiad, he'd participated in a National Science competition practical and theory test and received a high distinction and fell within the top 2 percent in the country, he was in Midtown High's Winemaking Club which he was told looked good and took very little actual time, because a lot was waiting on fermentation - the biology and chemistry of it all, and then there was his website.

He had been working on a website of his own construction that carried his own science and tech blog and vlog.  He'd started to add photos and short video glimpses of himself and the other types in colourful costumes he'd run into along the way in a different part of the site.  It had boosted traffic a bit, or perhaps it just drew more eyes to the site and his blogwork, it was hard to tell just from the basic counters, but the site seemed to be growing a little in popularity.  Most of the work had been done as far as the infrastructure, and it just required basic maintenance and fresh content.  Which he didn't mind doing and didn't take long, but it was still time.  

Time when he was already going to be getting spread more thin as he'd have to get himself a real job.

Speaking of... no point having the opportunity go to waste.

He waved, as a helicopter stopped it's flyby to turn back and spend a lengthy period of time watching him.  He gave a wave, pulled the mask back down below his mouth, and then got to his feet.

"You waiting for me to dance for you?"  The adult voice came through the voice modulation.  He tapped out a few steps and finished with a flourish.

"What, you never seen a superhero before?  Welcome to New York."  A quick two finger salute to the temple as he took two steps forward and dove off of Steinway Tower, to the gasps of the pair in the helicopter.

As the late webline grew taut, he let out a joyful yelp, and began to ready himself for his close up.  Swinging past a phone webbed to a highrise on a speedy pass, which took today's video automatically picking up the motion as he swept through.

He launched a web at a light pole and, never breaking momentum, flipped over it and went flying back in the direction of the building, scraping the phone off the building with a single wall-crawling palm, before continuing on his way.

He hadn't had them long, but he couldn't imagine these powers ever getting old.

 S P I D E R - M A N
S P I D E R - M A N

Peter swung down to the bodega on Jamaica Avenue slowing his momentum with a hop and a skip.  He entered the establishment with a telltale bell ring and walked to the refrigerated section at the back of the store.  He pulled down the handle, self-pouring a slushee and looked through the frozen shelves as the machine went to work.  Aunt May would have worked hard on dinner, but perhaps he could pick something up on the cheap for dessert.

Soften the blow when he tells her he's going to put off unpaid internship, and with it possibly giving up his chances at Academic Scholarship to the college of his choice, to pursue paid work which the household really needed from him.  He couldn't imagine that going down well.  She could be selfless to a fault.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked.

Peter sighed and scooped his cup off of the machine.  A friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man's work is never done.

"Hands where I can see them!  Away from the Alarm button!  Empty the till in the bag!  Hurry!  Do it now!  N--!"

He was interrupted by the long sound of slurping from a straw.

The barrels of the sawn-off shotgun were quickly turned in the direction of the masked hero.

"Get on the ground!  Get down!  Get down or I'll pump you full of lead!"

Peter pulled the mask back down over his face.  The vocal nodes coming into contact with his throat again.

"No, you won't."  He placed the cup down on a shelf behind him.

"I will!  I'll--"

"See, I've got this weird Spider sense thing that tells me when I'm in actual real danger, and it's giving me nothing right now.  So either that gun's empty, or you have no intention of actually shooting it."

"Well--  I'll do it I swear!  I'll pum--"

"And you wouldn't pump me full of lead either.  They don't sell lead based shotgun cartridges anymore.  Haven't for years, if you'd bothered to buy shells to load that gun yourself.  It'd probably be steel or tungsten, something like that, doesn't give off the same ring though.  Not as intimidating.   If there were shells in there in the first place, that is.  Like cocking the gun.  But you thought it'd sound intimidating enough to just cock the shotgun and start yelling, yeah?"

He could see sweat start dripping through the stocking on the man's head.  This wouldn't take long.  It was all under--

Suddenly, Peter's Spider-Sense blared!  His right lens went askew with his brow raised, as he looked behind the till at the man working the counter drew steel.

The teen's hands raised.  "No!  Wait!"

The shotgun barrel turned.  A trigger pulled.  Peter turned and drop-kicked the man, launching him out of the bodega onto the sidewalk in a hail of shattered glass, as the bullet past where the man had just stood and destroyed a shelf full of snacks, and embedding itself in the wall at the back of the store next to the slushee machine he'd stood by moments earlier. 

The man got to his feet with a groan and scurried down the street, much the worse for wear.

"He--  He was about to stand down!  He was going to go!"

"Sure.  Sure he go today.  Then he come back again next week.  Rob me when you not here.  Or shoot me, then empty the till himself.  Why you stop me?"  The man replied in broken english.

Something about the situation told Peter that wasn't the case though.  He'd felt he could actually get through to the man.  And if he ever was coming back now, with the knowledge there was a gun behind the counter and someone who'd intend to use it, he was pretty sure it wouldn't be with an unloaded gun or an unwillingness to use it.

"You could've killed me.  Or anyone else in your store.  I was just back there!"  He replied.

"No!  I'm good shot.  I'd have hit!  Good shot!  You helped him get away!  Broke window!  You pay for that!"  The increasingly agitated bodega owner yelled back.  "Still owe from last week!  Tried cash check!  Bank wouldn't take!"

"Wait...  You tried to cash that?  You went to the bank and tried to cash a six dollar and eighteen cents check made out to 'Spider-Man'?  I thought that was a celebrity thing.  It was from your own check book, I'm pretty sure that's not how checks work."  The teen replied, scratching his neck in thought.

"Celebrity?"

"Yeah, you know.  I sign the check, you laminate or something and put it on the wall with a photograph, and it's like you have the celebrity's signature and a picture with them, like 'Robert DeNiro shops here' or something."

"Oh!  Photograph!"  The man reached behind the camera and pulled out a bulky old polaroid camerera with an obnoxious flash.

Peter stepped back, gave two web-shooting gestures and posed.  "I know the mask gets in the way, but I assure you I'm smiling as wide as I can."  He said, his voice clearly affected by an overly widetoothed grin.  The owner snapped off a photograph with the audible sound of the shutter, and held out a waiting hand for the photograph.

"No!  Mister DeNiro very good.  Mister DeNiro ALWAYS pay.  Mister DeNiro good man."

He shook the polaroid as it rapidly developed.

"Wait--  You know Bobby DeNiro?"

"You no call him Bobby!  Mister DeNiro good man.  We spoke about you and how check bounce.  Ask him if usual for celebrities to try to get out of paying.  He say 'No'.  Call you an asshole.  Mister DeNiro good man.  Always pay."

He stuck the photograph up on a board which said 'Do Not Accept Checks From These Customers'.

"Oh come on!"  He exclaimed as his picture went on the board.  "Robert DeNiro called me an asshole?"

"Good man.  And Mister Scorsese agreed.  You.  Asshole.  Always pay!"

"Robert DeNiro and Martin Scorsese both go to this bodega..?"  Peter scratched the back of his head.

"Good man.  B--"

"You mean, GoodFella..."

"Good man.  Both.  Always pay."

"Alright, alright already.  I'll pay.  I just don't have anything on me at the moment, because I thought it was like a celebrity, store credit thing."

The shopowner tore out another check from his book, which he seemed to have waiting in a holster.

"Well, now that's not gonna work is it?  We did that already.  That's just gonna bounce again.  I can't believe you tried to cash a check from Spider-man for six dollars and eighteen cents..."

"You pay!"

"Yes, I know!  I know!  I pay.  I pay--  I mean, I'll pay.  I just don't have cash on me."

The shopowner gave him the eye.  Holding him in intense scrutiny.

"Look... You tell me how much I owe.  I'll go home, come back and pay in full with exactly that much cash."

"No!  You pay!"  He got agitated all over again.

"I'm trying to pay!  I just don't have it on me, and another check would bounce!  I'd come right back!"  Came the teen's exasperated explanation through the adult voice modulation.

Once again the shopowner gave him the eye.

"Three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents."

"So three hundred for the window and then... two lots of... six dollars and eighteen cents."  He held a hand out across the counter.  "Right?"

The shopowner took his hand, and held a finger up, never breaking firm eye contact.  "You pay.  You come right back!"

The youth nodded solemnly.

He stepped outside of the store onto the broken glass of the storefront.

"Definitely need a job..."  He concluded, as he fired a webline in the direction of home.
Hound55 Member

Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

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