As a teenager, her father, Walter Hardy, disappeared. In her attempts to discover the truth of what happened, she learned her father was an international art thief by the name The Cat, and met his mentor, a man only known as Black Fox. It was from Black Fox that Felicia learned the trade, all while spending the next several years searching for Walter.
In her early twenties, she found her father. In an attempt to protect his family, Walter had faked his death and gone into hiding after refusing to work for The Maggia. Tragically, their reunion was cut short by a Maggia assassin. Enraged, Felicia decided to dedicate her life to enacting vengeance on the organization that had twice taken her father from her. She underwent a surgery to bestow her with superhuman abilities, and adapted the identity of the Black Cat in an effort to honor the two men who had raised her. She began a campaign of breaking into secure Maggia facilities, then providing the stolen information and goods to Maggia rivals, such as the Kingpin.
It was during this time that she met Spider-Man, who helped convince Felicia that, while dismantling the Maggia's operations was a worthy goal, her methods of providing crime lords with intel and material was wrong, and would only serve to hurt more innocents in the long run. Dropping her vendetta, Felicia attempted to retire from from the life, but found a mundane existence too boring. She instead decided to give up her civilian life, embracing her costumed identity as the true version of herself. Meeting Spider-Man once more, the two partnered up for some time before Felicia's propensity for thievery—she had been pilfering the pockets of criminal organizations on the side—led to Spider-Man parting ways in disappointment.
Wanting a new direction in life, Felicia used these ill-gotten gains to fund her own detective and security consultation agency, of which she was boss and sole employee. She also invested in a top-of-the-line suit courtesy of The Tinkerer. After making a new, more respectable name for herself in the business, she eventually crossed paths with Danny Rand who offered Felicia a gig as a Hero for Hire.
Felicia Hardy is an interesting character who received quite a lot of development in the late 80s and early-to-mid 90s. Unfortunately, like most characters, she severely suffers from writers constantly forcing her back into states of "status quo." I hate this trend. Despise it even. So, the motivation here is to write a story featuring an interesting character who is actually allowed to progress in their life. Call it a big "fuck you" to Marvel Editorial.
For my version of Felicia, I am borrowing from several different alternate universe sources, including the 1994 Spider-Man animated series and PS4 game, blending the origins and drives of them into something that is coherent and meaningful. Primarily, though, this Felicia is in line with a truncated version of the 616 comics—to a point. Felicia's time as a detective, and her stint as a Hero for Hire, are the main focus and will be approached from a perspective of "what would this woman be like if editorial didn't keep erasing her progressions?" We're going to pretend the dumb shit that happened in-between and afterward never existed.
The warehouse was cold, the kind of deep, industrial chill that seeped into the bones. A truck idled near the loading dock, exhaust curling into the air like the last wisps of a dying cigarette. Overhead, flickering fluorescents buzzed against the silence, throwing stark white light across concrete floors and rusting support beams. The warehouse wasn’t abandoned, but it wanted to be. It was the kind of place where things happened out of sight, behind bolted doors and expired safety inspections.
Six men occupied the warehouse floor, clustered near a battered steel worktable. One stood with his arms crossed—a tall man in a tailored grey suit that fit him like a second skin. His features were sharp and angular, giving the impression of being carved from expensive stone. He checked his watch, impatient.
Next to him, a stockier man hunched over a laptop, pecking at the keys. He had broad shoulders, a shaved head, and a scar running along the ridge of his nose. He looked mean, and if not for the lines of code flashing across the screen, I would have pegged him for muscle. His fingers moved fast, eyes flicking between the screen and the small green flash drive plugged into the side.
Two more men stood a few feet away. One was a barrel-chested slab of muscle in a too-small leather jacket, the other leaner and older, with silver-streaked hair. They kept their hands close to their holsters, just in case. The last pair lingered by the loading dock doors, more brawn, more guns. Not that it mattered. Guns were only helpful if you saw your target coming.
Six men. Six sets of eyes.
None of them ever looked up.
I moved in the rafters, a whisper of motion. My boots made friends with the steel beams as I navigated the skeletal maze above the men. They were here to make a deal for some disgustingly wealthy individuals. I was here to collect a prize—but a prize wasn’t worth anything if you couldn’t take it clean. That meant timing. That meant patience.
It also meant waiting for the right mistake.
It started small. Laptop Guy reached for his coffee, more focused on the screen than his grip. His fingers fumbled, and the mug tipped. Dark liquid sloshed over the table, spilling fast toward the flash drive.
“Shit,” he muttered, jerking the cup upright, but the damage was done. Coffee trickled into the USB port, pooling in the tiny crevice around the drive.
It didn’t appear to fry the system, but it shorted the connection, causing the screen to stutter. A system message appeared.
ERROR: device improperly ejected.
The file transfer froze, and Laptop Guy hissed a curse, grabbing a rag from his pocket to dab at the device.
The tall man in the suit exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea how much time you just cost us?”
Laptop Guy was already fumbling with the drive, trying to reinsert it, but his hands were still damp from the spill. Fingers slipped, and the drive popped loose. It bounced off the metal table, skittering across the floor. It slid far and fast enough to land directly under the steel shelving behind them.
The bruiser in the leather jacket sighed, stepping forward. “I got it.”
He crouched, reaching under the shelving.
Maybe it was old. Maybe it had been loaded unevenly. Maybe, just maybe, something was working in my favor—either way, the shelf shifted, and the weight at the top tipped ever so slightly. A box of old inventory—heavy, dust-covered, and precariously stacked—leaned forward, then tumbled.
The bruiser jerked back just in time, but the box hit the ground with a crash, splitting open. Loose screws, bolts, and washers scattered across the concrete like metal confetti. The suited man took a sharp step back to avoid them. So did the others.
Just like that, all eyes were momentarily elsewhere. And in that precise, perfect instant, I dropped—no more substantial than a shadow in the night. By the time the tall man straightened, brushing dust from his sleeve, the drive was gone.
So was I.
udonoodles,
Master Bruce,
Nani,
Hound55,
Lord Wraith,
mickilennial,
Supermaxx,
AndyC,
Festive,
Simple Unicycle
