Post by webdevil on Dec 14, 2023 4:04:03 GMT -7
New York was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that. It was made plain by the closed signs of bakeries, the businessmen huddled in their offices for warmth, the police, Turk Barrett the city's worst criminal, and even Blabbo the Birthday Clown. Spider-Man saw it all. And Spider-Man's sight was good for anything he decided to put himself to in the chill of night. And Old New York was as dead as a doornail.
Mind you, thought the webslinger as he eyeballed the concrete jungle from below his perch, I don't exactly know where that phrase even comes from. You'd think it would refer to a coffin nail, but that's another metaphor entirely in the trade. And technically type of nail. Still, if people older and wiser than I am can come up with the metaphor and use it, I am not going to argue with that. But yes, New York is definitely as dead as a doornail.
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How did Spider-Man know New York was dead? How could he not? He had protected New York from muggers, fires, natural disasters, aliens, and all manner of super criminal multiple universes had to offer. At times it felt like Spider-Man was the sole administrator, sole protector, and sole mourner of this burden. His home, his horror, his playground, and his responsibility. And Spider-Man was not complaining about this.
Were it not for the fact New York was so quiet that gave the Webslinger had time to reflect on where he had been. Were it so quiet all the time then there wouldn't have come a time when he would have failed to act, and poor Peter Parker lost his Uncle Ben that night. He would have just returned home an ordinary kid and nothing would come of it. Nothing more interesting about his life than the fact a radioactive spider gave him amazing abilities that defied all known laws of the Earth. Or a red and blue leotard that had the most controversial reputation the city had seen since George Steinbrenner controlled the New York Yankees.
Spider-Man had been through many outfits over the years, of course, but there he stood years after his debut on a rooftop in more or less the same uniform: The familiar Red and Blue. The uniform, something he once called a costume, had since upgraded the fabric to be worn and adjusted in all seasons of the year as opposed to the simple stretch fabric he began with, but he was still as distinguishibly the first person to climb the walls in New York City. Sometimes people new would confuse him with one of the other wallcrawlers, some called him Spidey, webhead, and so on, but he answered to both names, it was all the same to him.
But whatever he went by, he kept his nose to the grindstone, did the original Wallcrawler. Relentless, grasping, scraping, and near tireless to clean up the city. Spinning webs as he swung from rooftop-to-rooftop, a graceful wraith on the wind, his sense of purpose steeled that featureless face hidden beneath a mask. A steel that as of late began to run cold in him that ran deeper than the December air. The cold within him froze his features, nipped at his nose, shriveled his cheeks (and he wasn't even quite 30 yet), stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, turned his lips blue; and spoke out with a grating voice that made his costumed comrade, Daredevil, raise an eyebrow. And this mean streak did not thaw one degree at Christmas.
Oh sure, he got cold physically too. The thermal protection he had since added to his uniform (again, calling it a uniform, he thought as he turned down Madison Avenue) only did so much, but he ignored it as he lowered deep enough to yank a purse snatcher. What was a few degrees lower temperature if somebody could finish their shopping unimpeded? No weather could hold him from doing that. However, the heaviest rain, snowfall, hail, and sleet at least had one advantage over him: It often "came down" handsomely, and Spidey never did.
Sometimes people would stop him in the street to say "Hey, Spidey! Lookin' good! Maybe take a selfie?" Other times muggers and warehouse peddlers looked up in fear. No children stopped him, however, not lately. All attention seemed to be focused away from the rooftops and towards social media, where another wallcrawler claiming to be "Spider-Man" was trading his services on apps for ad revenue. Yet everybody knew who he was, even the dogs knew when he was near and whimper in fear as though they said: "Look out, master! Here comes the Spider-Man!"
But what did Spidey care? He preferred it this way. True, he used the Friendly Neighbourhood moniker over the years well enough, but at a distance he knew he could keep people safe. Involving himself meant messy entanglements, and he had plenty of those outside of the mask as it was.
Of all the good days in the year, Christmas Eve - Spidey found himself cutting across the city on down through Greenwich and up through on to Midtown. It was cold, bleak, and foggy. Even from where he was in the cavernous cityscape, he could hear peoople wheezing up and down the street, stamping their feet upon the sidewalk, looking for a subway tram grate to warm them. Not exactly easy, Spidey thought, as city ordinance had gone out of its way to turn most of the city's architecture extremely hostile to the homeless and the poor. It was barely three-in-the-afternoon, but it was quite dark already - it hadn't been a very bright morning to begin with - and lights were already on in most of the windows of nearby buildings. The fog (aided by the steam of the tunnels below the street) came up to his level like noxious gas, so dense that while the street (like all the cross hatches of Manhattan) were thick with buildings and options to swing toward, even the Daily Bugle in the distance felt like a thousand miles away. From where he was, to see the dingy cloud come drooping down and obscuring everything, one such as he would think Mother Nature was acting as if they were done hard by. Heh. You ain't got nothing, on me, sister, he thought and landed on the side of the newspaper's front office building.
The entrance to the Daily Bugle city room was open, and chaotic. The idea that he could find who he was looking for, who was in a dismal little cubicle beyond typing away at his desk was almost laughable. But Peter Parker had done this dance for years and was able to find the reporter in an instant. The paper's publisher, J. Jonah Jameson, kept the place as cheaply as he could (which meant the heat was turned way the hell down, not that it mattered with all the computers and people running around), but it always struck Peter as odd whenever he had to watch Ben Urich, ace reporter and Editor of the Pulse (why did he not have his own office, yet? I should ask Robbie, he thought), had to wear his winter coat while indoors.
"Ah, Peter! Merry Christmas to you!" came the reporter's voice. It was a cheerful voice that belied his clear exhaustion. Ben Urich, tall and lanky, wisened beyond his age, balding, and wore thick glasses, hardly ever appeared as energetic as the situations he frequently found himself in, seeing as Peter knew he was friends with not just Daredevil, but even helped him as Spider-Man on many occasions.
"Am I allowed to cash in my Monopoly Card for 'Bah Humbug' this year, Ben?" asked Peter.
The webswinging had warmed him up so much that he was red in the face. Ben looked at him appraisingly.
"Christmas a humbug, Uncle?" said Ben, with a horrendously bad British accent that put him in his falsetto, "What's up, Pete?"
"Yeah, I dunno, Ben. I just don't feel all that jolly this year. MJ's been busy, job's been, well, the job. You get it, right?" said Peter, putting a hand behind his neck, which he felt was still red from overheating.
"I do. But with a wife like yours? Heh. Nah, I thought you always wanted to help people?"
Peter, having no better answer at the ready, shrugged and mumbled something about "Holiday blues..."
"Ah, it happens to everybody now and again," said Ben with a shrug. "So what brings you here on Christmas Eve?"
"Where else can I be?" asked Peter "Economy being what it is? On Christmas? Looking for work so I can give Mary Jane something nice for a change. I haven't exactly been balancing the books on that front lately, either. I feel bad for those retail workers too, cause they're in the same boat. I swear, if I could find every idiot who goes about putting Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas" in the shops, I would make them work the floor for twelve hours and have the workers yell at them that they ruined the holidays,"
Ben eyed Peter over his glasses.
"We still talking about retailers?"
Peter sighed and sat in the chair opposite Ben's desk.
"No... It's just... Normally I'm excited about this time of year, but circumstances have sort of... I dunno, sapped the Christmas spirit out of me. Much good it will do when I have to show up at Aunt May's in a few hours and pretend to be happy and nothing is wrong,"
"We all have problems, Peter. A lot of things can go wrong, especially at Christmas," said Ben, who began rummaging through a drawer. "But you can't think the only way you can make people happy is by getting them expensive toys. Look at your own students. How many have you helped this year? Given your time, charity, and forgiveness throughout the year and not just around the holidays? There are too few running around like that, you know. Sure, Christmas has never been kind to my wallet either, but you honestly can't say you haven't done a lot of good,"
Peter, in spite of himself, smiled weakly at the old reporter. Ben smiled back.
"Now as to your - -" began Ben, but stopped.
His words were barely out of his mouth when a door halfway across the corridor banged wide open and out stepped a towering lunatic. He was tall, lean and fit for his age, had a square flat haircut, a mustache that should be considered illegal by most standards, and even across a room could be heard as if he was bellowing into your ear (which he also do if given the chance).
