Disclaimer - I do not own Spiderman, any of it's characters, music used in the movies, any of that good stuff. However, I do own said hero in this fic, SO HANDS OFF! You wanna borrow him? send me an e-mail and we'll talk about it.
I'd also like to point out that this is a rewrite. Hopefully, it sucks much less now than it did before.
Mistaken Identity
Prologue
And they say that a hero can save us...
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New York city NY, a crowded and sleepless city full of crime and senseless violence, where people are more concerned with their own lives and problems than others. A city where blame is passed on to another rather than shouldered, where money and violence can solve anything, given enough of one or the other.
Tonight is like no other, as a dozen heavily armed thugs have taken up short term residence in a bank on 53rd street along with dozens of hostages and bank employees. Police outside set up a blockade of cars, armored S.W.A.T. vans, diligent men and women, a thin blue line that kept the wave of New Yorkers from flooding the scene. Police negotiators stood at the edge of the blockade and at telephone booths, with hand sets and bullhorns in hand, pleading for the men to either give up, or release hostages.
Reporters strained against the barricades and police holding them back from getting a scoop that was sure to capture some meager amount of acclaim, with microphones, tape recorders, video cameras both hand and full sized, trying to bargain their way inside, or at least a foot closer to the scene of the crime.
A lone figure, farther off from the clamoring mob of information hungry word dogs silently hopped a wooden barrier and walked towards the large bank. Some people pointed, others spoke to those beside them, the few media members who noticed turned their various devices towards the figure, and others shouted out jealous insults and expletives.
Calmly walking up the cement steps the person pushed one of the many mostly glass doors open and walked inside, ignoring the looks of desperation and fear from the few people tied up just inside the entrance. One of the masked and black clad robbers turned and began shouting, pointing his assault rifle and shaking it.
Turning, the newcomer looked at the man for a moment, keeping one hand in his pocket as he casually looked him over with uncaring eyes. The thug stepped forwards and raised his rifle to strike the newcomer in the face, and was knocked off his feet by the heel that smashed into his jaw before he could react.
Turning at the sudden noise, a pair of black clad men with masks stared at the scene, the newcomer letting his leg drop to the floor as he turned to face them, one hand still in his pocket, staring at them with cold eyes. The pair raised their rifles and let off a long stream of bullets that blew dozens of holes in the glass windows at the front of the bank, shattering them completely.
The police and S.W.A.T. outside reacted instantly, making sure the people outside got away, down, or behind cover while either doing the same themselves, or closing in on the bank. One pair of the media mob, a reporter and his cameraman dropped flat and began recording, the cameraman zooming in on what he could see through the bank's doors.
A black clad body slammed into the metal door frame and slumped to the ground, there was another staccato crack of gunfire and more glass exploded. The first figure stood up and held his head with one hand, the other shakily raised his gun, and a yellow and black blur slammed shoulder first into the mans stomach, doubling him over. A second man in black, sans rifle ran up and doubled over as well as the black and yellow clad figure drove a foot into his stomach, sending the thug stumbling back a pace or two.
The good samaritin dropped into a low crouch and sprung up, landing on both assailants shoulders and driving the men's faces into the hard concrete floor. Straightening up, the man stepped away from the limp bodies and turned his head, looking straight at the cameraman sprawled out in the parking lot a hundred yards away.
Cursing, the cameraman fumbled with his rig, struggling to straighten the bulky device out.
"Christ Frank, that things worth more than we can afford, what the hell happened?" Rick O'Nassy was the up and coming reported of the week at channel six. He was known for his ability to ferret out scoops on drug deals and mob hits like nobody's business. He also had a pill popping habit that he didn't like to talk about, and a nasty right hook. But he got the goods, so most of the time, his employers looked the other way.
"Worth more than you can afford maybe..." Frank mumbled under his breath. "That guy just kung fu-ed those guys asses without breaking a sweat, then he looked right at me." Feeling damp beads of sweat tickle the back of his neck, Frank fought down the urge to just up and walk away, right then and there. His sister made a decent living reading Tarot cards for people down in Queens, and for kicks, he'd asked her to do a reading for him.
He'd always ribbed his baby sister about getting a real job at a casino, and she teased him in turn about getting a job as a birthday photographer. When she had asked him to draw a card at random, and he'd pulled the Death card, he had shrugged it off as nothing serious. At the time, it hadn't been.
"That's it? Shit... oh no, he looked at you. My god, the horror..." Rick was unsympathetic, but then, he'd never been sympathetic in his life, so why should he start acting like it now. "Just get the shot Frank."
Grumbling under his breath, Frank turned the camera back to the building, the man had turned to look into the building, standing casually as his fingers flexed slowly. Tapping the zoom switch to pull in closer, Frank squinted through the blurry lens as the camera automatically adjusted the focus. Despite having his attention riveted on the lens, somewhere in the back of his mind, he was still thinking about the cards he had drawn. Next, had been the Devil card.
The man was nearly six feet tall and built slender, almost too slender to have taken down a pair of armed would-be bank robbers so easily. Long black hair trailed from his head, most of it gathered up into a- Frank adjusted the zoom again- a thick braid, of all things. A bright yellow tunic was belted over jet black pants, odd looking red cords bound the pants to the man's shins in a criss-crossing pattern. He was dressed like something out of Japanese history. What a dork.
Diving to the side, the man avoided another hail of bullets that spattered the few doors with intact glass, sending a spray of sharp shards out over the concrete ground and stairs outside the door. Stepping forwards the man thrust his foot into one robber's stomach, then quickly jerked the same foot into another's chest, sending him sprawling as he jerked his leg back and slammed his heel down onto the first man's back, dropping him like a sack of hammers.
As Frank watched, entranced, the man jerked his leg up, launching an assault rifle up to chest height before snatching the gun out of the air. As he spun to the side he flung it into another robber's face, knocking him to the ground. Rather than risk shooting each other, the men remaining rushed en-mass to bury the interloper under in a crudely co-ordinated dog-pile.
Their attempts were met with equal force as the man snapped a kick into a face, bending his knee to strike another with his heel, spinning around and crouching to sweep the legs out from two others. Rolling backwards his feet flashed out to catch a pair in the abdomen, kicking up onto his feet again, the man caught a punch aimed for his face and used the hold to yank the attacker towards him.
Staring, entranced, it was all Frank could do to keep the mystery man in the middle of the shot. The station'll want to have this whole thing replayed in slow motion tonight. And somewhere, in the back of his brain, something was nagging at him.
Driving his foot into the grappled thug's gut, he swept his leg out and around in a half circle, bringing his heel down on his back, and drove his face into the ground. Slowly, almost wraith-like, he stepped away from the fallen bodies and looked around, scanning the room for any other black clad figures. Satisfied that there were none, the man turned and walked out of the front door.
Naturally, dozens of New York's finest were there to keep him from getting away. Frank knew that this would be the money-shot, and suddenly, the view on the lens jerked to the side and all he could see was the blurry side of the SWAT van, parked out in the street.
"Tell me you're getting this Frank!" Rick, in his excitement, had reached over and grabbed the cameraman's shoulder, and was shaking him wildly.
"Leggo you idiot! I can't aim when you're doing that!" Shrugging Rick's hand off, Frank quickly jerked the camera back around and thumbed the zoom switch, praying he hadn't missed much.
He had missed quite a bit, the man had already cleared the police somehow, and was running towards the crowd barricades. Leaping into the air, he cleared the cars, the crowd, nearly the entire street as he landed on a bus that was driving down the road running past 53rd street.
Frank whistled in awe as he stopped recording and let the camera slip from his shoulder. "That was one hell of a jump." But that was what he had expected from a crime fighter in New York, unrealistic feats of strength and agility.
"Come on, let's hurry up and get back to the station. This is gonna make the front page, the evening edition, six o'clock news... Shit, this'll make the goddamn report of the decade!" Rick was already up on his feet, fishing in his pockets for his smokes and the car keys. Pulling out a plastic lighter, Rick popped what could have been a mint into his mouth.
Frank turned and stared at him a little oddly, still in a bit of a daze from the scene he had just watched being played out infront of him. The Justice card, that was what that card had been. His baby sister had predicted the whole thing somehow, impossible as it had seemed at the time. He knew he'd have to consult her again.
Then the things Rick had been saying sank in. "Report of the dec- what the hell are you talking about?" Throwing the camera's sling over his shoulder, he fixed Rick with a pointed glare. He didn't like where this was going, Rick had screwed him out of decent raises before.
Grabbing the lapels of Frank's jacket, Rick pulled the startled cameraman closer, staring up at him with a feverish gaze, a hungry sort of glint in his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper. "Frank, we've got the secret identity of Spiderman on tape..." Grinning in an unpleasant sort of way, Rick stuffed a cigarette into the corner of his mouth, and flicked his lighter.
Frank just knew this wouldn't end well. "Oh boy." Sighing, He looked down to fiddle with his lens a little. That was when he noticed that the cassette tray was open.
The tape was gone.
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There, a semi rewrite of the prologue, and a bit more information. The reporter's got a name now, and there's an explanation for the cassette in the next chapter. Ugh, if you're a new reader, I'd suggest skipping the next few chapter until I get them rewritten. The good stuff starts at chapter eight or so. I promise.