Disclaimer: I do not own Spider-Man or any associated characters appearing in this story.

xxx

Turn any street in New York City and you're bound to find a super-villain.

A lot of them, you'd never know by looking. They blend right in with the crowd—your perpetual ex-cons and gangsters, career criminals like the Shocker or Boomerang with more street than smart between their ears. Others fall into crime, poured out from broken homes and circumstance into the waiting arms of madmen; those like Sandman and the Vulture, Mobius and Electro, each bestowed great power without understanding what such a thing could take.

(He thinks of Aleksei. Connors. Puts their names from his mind and keeps swinging.)

Few Capes ever found it impossible to sympathize with their Rogues. Men like the Punisher or Ghost Rider were outliers; they took life easy, justified it using metrics devoid any shade of gray. To them, rehabilitation and criminals were an oxymoron. An impossibility. And others like Spider-Man were worse villains yet for allowing evil to run free.

Sometimes, the monsters proved them right.

Bank robberies aren't a rare occurrence in New York. Even less in recent months—in the absence of a true Kingpin of Crime1, the criminals of New York had declared open season. The city was a warzone; there weren't enough cops to keep up, and half the Avengers were either off in space or God only knew where else. The sheer number of crimes—thirty break-ins this week alone—had even Friendly Neighborhood Spiders admitting they couldn't be everywhere at once.

The police haven't arrived by the time he and Silk do. Sirens wail in the distance and from within the bank itself, its front doors blown clean off their hinges. Beyond them, Peter barely makes out a pair of black-clad shapes moving in the dim.

"We take 'em both in one shot," he whispers, holding up two fingers Cindy's way before pointing to the bank. "In, webbed, and then look for accomplices."

"Look at you being all professional," the corner of her mask quirks up in a smile. "All the blood to the head must've paid off."

They move in silence, twin multitonal blurs in the dark. When Peter hits the ceiling inside, he expects to see Boomerang and his new Sinister Six, Vulture and his ever-growing trope of wayward children—second on his list to deal with after Black Cat—even Marko or Hydro-man for old time's sake. With the night he's having, it wouldn't be a huge stretch.

Instead, he gets Slyde and Blindside.

(Of course.)

The new order of things saw all kinds ooze from the woodwork. In the lack of a coherent power structure, those without a reputation fell through the cracks and thrived. Little fish, the ones like Stilt-Man or Trapster, owed no allegiance to anyone but themselves. In the grand scheme of things, they weren't important enough to warrant attention, and that made them invisible.

Scavengers during wartime.

Slyde was a regular nobody of nobodies, a holdover from a time when empowered criminals only ever needed a gimmick and a plan. Ten years ago, he'd been on the same level as Shocker or the Beetle—a nuisance, though one liable to get the drop on Peter if he wasn't careful. Now, he and his suit are little more than an annoyance; too many other criminals had stepped up their game since, had become more than just an assortment of tricks or gadgets.

Blindside, he knows, is the more dangerous element. Unlike Slyde, he's a relatively new player to the game. Any confrontation between them still held an air of uncertainty. Rogues could grow and evolve over time, same as anyone else. Sometimes, they followed the same rules as Capes. They worked with codes of conduct, tried to do crime "straight". Methodical—get in and get out, hurt if you gotta, but don't take a life. Sometimes, that commitment held for years.

(Sometimes, they became Carnage.)

Usually, what guys like Blindside and Slyde do is just try to survive—take what they can, when they can, and hope one of New York's second-finest don't get in the way. It was illegal, but staying small has its benefits. In the present chaos, free agents probably had the best shot at making it out relatively unscathed.

"Oh, guys. Guys, guys, guys, guys, guys—" relatively unscathed; the cash register Slyde drops on his foot has got to sting something fierce. "You really picked the wrong night to be doing this, sheesh. Haven't you heard there's two of me now?"

Cindy shakes a fist in his direction. "Not a clone, dude! Quit telling people I'm a clone."

"Hear that?" he jerks a thumb her way, fires a web with his opposite hand to stop Blindside making for an emergency exit. "Two exact copies of Spider-Man. She may be prettier, but you're still boned. Double-boned, even."

Cindy groans. "Dude. Phrasing, much?"

"Head outta the gutter, Silk." he does wince in retrospect, though. "Now, back to you two. What're a pair of upstanding mooks like yourselves doing out tonight?"

Part of him is glad it's these two knuckleheads, tonight. Slyde and Blindside (try saying it five times fast) have never been what Peter would call difficult crooks. They both have power-sets verging on headache inducing; but at the end of the day, their gimmicks only went so far.

"Oh, hey Spider-Man!" Slyde waves, strangely cheerful. "We were just, ah—sliding on by!"

The problem, Peter thinks, is that too many crooks focus on presentation. They're all bark; Slyde's suit hasn't been a problem since he figured out what made it tick, a quick change of web-fluid all it takes to render him immobile. The web-line he fires takes the man at the ankle, a swift yank back sending him crashing to the floor.

"So…you were saying?" he asks.

Slyde holds his hands up. "We ain't here to cause no trouble, Spider."

"Doubt that." Cindy's Spider-sense kicks in first; a web-line cocoons Slyde's hands together above his head. "I mean, like the double-negative didn't give it away. Creep."

"Honest, we was—we're bein' coerced! Yeah, that's it! Coerced!" Slyde almost sounds it, but this new guy has months of practice. "Ain't that right Blind? We're just patsies caught up in forces outta our control and whatnot. Honest!"

The man in question has been inching toward a window for the better part of a minute. Peter stops him in his tracks by firing a web large enough to bar his escape route. "Got a date or something, Blindside?"

He cringes, opens his mouth and—

"Foul on Spider-Man!" Cindy interrupts, her arms crossing in the shape of an X. "I'm calling foul on the play! Usage of a teammate's quip is a two-coffee penalty after patrol!"

Peter puts a hand to his chest, faux-affronted. "Are you saying I stole a bit?"

"With as much finesse as these two goobers, yeah." she answers. "Really expected better from you, Spidey."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing. This is character assassination." Peter shoots back, webbing Blindside to the floor as well. "The defense sees Ms. Silk's accusation as, hold on—" more webs catch Blindside at both hands, anchoring them to a nearby wall. "Forgot his suit does that thing I hate. Anyway, this attack on our honorable Friendly Neighborhood Spider will not stand, Ms. Silk! These baseless accusations are an obvious grab for attention!"

She sticks out her tongue. "Nu-uh."

"Yes-huh. And worse yet—" he lets himself fall to the ground, turning to land on his feet. "This very serious claim is obviously rooted in the fact neither of us has had dinner yet."

"Ha! Yeah, no; F-minus on that one, Web-head." Her answer is a thumb pointed at the ground while she imitated the sound of a buzzer. "I've seen high-schoolers with better game."

"Wait, that was for real, Spider-Man?" Despite the mask, Slyde can manage an incredulous look rather well. "Man, that was just…ouch, man. What were you even thinkin'?"

Slyde's face comes down with a sudden and terminal case of web-to-the-mouth. "One, not what I meant," Peter answers. "And for two: you'd be knocked off your feet if I ever…um. Huh. That's actually pretty smart. Go Blindside."

"What're you—" Cindy follows his gaze. Blindside had apparently taken off his gloves and boots to escape being webbed to the floor. Wow. When Cindy looks back at him, Peter points to the other emergency door and mouths thattaway.

(Solifugae are the fastest spiders in the world. Their largest specimens grow to be anywhere between five and six inches, and average ten miles per hour at their fastest recorded speed.

Extrapolate that by five feet and a hundred-odd pounds. (Give or take)

Cindy hits the floor, the ceiling, a table, and then lands on the space right next to the emergency door, left side bathed in neon red. Webs take Blindside at the knees, coiling tight enough to send him sprawling across the floor. Peter whistles when he comes to a stop, impressed. A month ago, it would've taken Cindy five stops and twice as much web.

"—You planned that, didn't you?" Cindy shoots Peter a none-to-pleased look while Blindside tries to crawl away. "Tried to Mr. Miyagi me or something."

"Well…" Peter hedges, shrugging.

"Tell me to wax the spider-mobile and I'ma wreck it," she ropes Blindside by the ankles, pulling him back. "Like, without even hesitating. Just run it off the Empire State and into the Hudsohwaitaminute."

—Funny thing about Spider-sense?

It kicks without specifics, always a pulse in the back of the head screaming danger, danger Wil Robinson. Silk reacts first, leaping back as a pitch black haze erupts from every inch of Blindside's suit, her somersault taking her to the ceiling. Peter isn't so lucky; he manages to cover his mouth with web, but he's nowhere near as fast or forewarned. One moment, he's watching Blindside become the eye of a storm, curtains of hazy, almost granular darkness seeping out of him in every direction; the next?

Nothing, his vision gone, a pearl of mocking laughter hounding Peter into the gloom.

"Oh, this is just rich!" the smug creep sounds so happy with himself, "Both of you came here acting like hot shit; but now what, fuckers?!"

And then from the peanut gallery: "Hell yeah, Blindside!"

"Shut up, you worthless shit." Peter doesn't need eyes to see the annoyance, there. He drops to his belly poised to move, keeps his breathing even like Shang Chi taught him.

"Christ, don't even know why I let you con me into this," Blindside continues. "Coulda done it myself and made twice as much bank! Shit! And now I'm covered in these goddamn—what are they, webs?" the sound of a struggle, multiple thumps against the ground. "Spider-douche and his stupid webs, goddamn. Of all the fucking—webs! Like that's even a thing! And then the idiot's got the nerve to flirt on the job besides."

"You realize I can still hear you, right?" Cindy doesn't sound too far off. Or stressed—which is more than what Peter can say. "Because if not, wow. I'm almost embarrassed for you. Get your money back or something."

"Yeah, man." Count on Slyde to be the voice of reason—but why does he sound closer, too? "Cool it Blind…We're not here to hurt anyone."

More smacks against the linoleum, what sounds like boots padding across the floor. He tries to listen in, but Blindside apparently isn't having the best night: "S-shut up, bitch! Don't tell me what I know! Who do you think designed this suit?"

"A guy who should honestly know better by now," Peter offers, listening for that second movement in the dark. "What was it, something like five minutes your last batch took to wear off, Blindy?"

Something heavy drops against the floor. Solid. "I'm stronger now, Web-head! Better equipped! You don't run this joint anymore, ya hear me?!"

Peter grimaces. He's never wanted that—conquest was Otto's dream, the sole provenance of his "Superior," approach to Spider-Man. Peter wanted to help. He wanted criminals to know they could be more than the cards life had dealt them. Be more than just a name and a gimmick. But Doc Ock's methods had been an arms race, a steady escalation of force that had led to the Big Apple being where it was now.

Goons like Blindside upping the ante just to compete.

"—Aw, lookit the widdle criminal trying to act all tough," Cindy tuts Blindside as though he were a child, "Isn't it just so adorable?"

"Oh, just you wait, Spider-bitch." Blindside growls, "You're going first. Soon as I get out…"

"Woah there, hold up a second, Blinds! How's about let's keep the misogyny to a minimum tonight, yeah? Or at least to terrible internet forums."

The thumping becomes louder, more frantic. "And you're right after her, Web-head!"

"Blind, it ain't that bad," Slyde offers, unmistakably closer now. "Look at 'em, they can't even move! Let's just do what we came for and get back to show Bla—"

"What? No chance in hell!" livid, they name is Blindside. "Get over there and finish them off—we have them on the ropes, you idiot!"

"Dude, we live on ropes." Cindy shoots back.

Peter laughs. "Yeah, it's uh…kind of our thing?"

"Shut. Up!" The next thump from Blindside is followed by a second, lighter one. Peter's Spider-sense goes wild in the moment after, forces him to the ceiling as a spray of bullets screams past wild beneath him. "Do you ever stop talking?"

What neither Spider says out loud is how rough the going is, how hard breathing and moving are starting to feel in the darkness. Blindside used to be one trick, all shock and awe; but whatever this new toxin is? It burns Peter's lungs and sets a fire at his every joint and tendon. Enhanced metabolism or no: prolonged exposure is not an option. He has to move.

"—I can vouch no for that one!" Cindy calls out, further away than she had been a second ago. "And the backseat swinging, holy co—Slyde, dang it, stay down. You're throwing off my banter!"

What a good kid. "Y'know, I actually get that question a lot?" He can't waste his time searching; though Cindy might approach the problem with the knack of someone naturally gifted, Peter still needs to keep Blindside talking to parse where the goon might be. "Silk, you think the gift of gab might be our secondary mutation?"

Gunfire and scrambling hands and feet herald her answer: "Little busy here, Spidey!"

"Today's the last time either of you will hear anything!" Spider-sense keeps Peter quipping for another day. Blindside may have an advantage in terms of sight, but he may as well fire blind for all the kick his semi-auto seems to have. "Goddammit, this was supposed to be an easy job! Why're two of you fuckers here? And why the hell now? Who did I piss—just stand still, you arachnid ass!"

Peter doesn't and won't, twisting through the air even as a bullet—sharp pain, hiss of air, grit teeth—grazes his shoulder. "Sorry, can't do that!" he calls out over the din. "Though I'm actually kinda impressed, Blindside! Points for knowing your subphylum!"

"—How the shit can you even tell where I'm going to shoot?!"

Roof to floor to roof again, keep moving, don't stop, just go, heart jackhammering in his ears louder than the gunfire trying to find its mark. He's lost blood from over a dozen places, re-opened wounds Black Cat cut into him not hours ago—and it comes to Peter then and there that might be the trick to this. He inhaled the neurotoxin. It seeped into his skin.

Adrenaline and sweat.

He goes unnecessary, becomes a metahuman super-ball ricocheting off every flat surface between himself and Blindside. Every inch of him screams at the exertion. Bullets worry him, another takes him at the thigh, makes him stumble, makes him hesitate—

But he keeps moving.

There's a single, heavy smack of flesh-on-flesh. Something heavy crumples to the ground, thudding twice before laying still. But Peter isn't the cause.

Cindy cracks her knuckles.

"And that, friends, is how you knock someone the fug out." there's a smile in her voice, her eyes a little too bright. "Y'know, I actually used to get in trouble for that—mom said it wasn't "lady-like," or refs thought I was being too aggressive on the ice…But look at me now, right? Solving stuff almost exclusively by punching it."

"Punching does fix a lot of problems," Peter's vertigo, however, is not one of them; he sways on his feet. "…Can you see yet?"

She nods. "Lil' bit, just shapes and vague outlines—you can't?"

Peter shakes his head, loses adrenaline on the next exhale. "Web the intake fans on Blind's suit, then go make sure Slyde's still in one piece-and-or-place. Good job on that, by the way." he gives her a thumbs-up. "Boys in blue should be here any minute."

"Phrasing. And, thanks. Hang tight while I check on twip numero two." Cindy's voice fades in volume as she walks away. Peter feels around for something to sit down on, finds a chair and plops into it. "Wait, question—" Cindy continues from across the way, "That wasn't your average punch-up with Blindside, was it?"

Peter leans back to stretch his spine. "What gave it away?"

"Gott the feeling you shouldn't be this wrecked, if it was." her voice comes from the left of him, matter-of-fact. "I mean, er. Not that I thought it was easy or anything, going blind is kind of up there on my list of Things I Did Not Expect to Happen Today, just. Hhn. Well...Slyde? And you did get kicked around by your Ex—"

"Black Cat."

"—Or whatever, earlier. So maybe that's it?" She makes a noncommittal sound. "It just feels like we hit the third level on Battletoads for some reason."

"Yeah, well. The gas was a new trick," Peter admits, blinking as his sight comes back piecemeal. "Feels like he upped the dosage—your throat doesn't feel weird, or anything?" a beat. "And phrasing for what?"

"There's plenty of ladies on the force by now, Spidey. Get with the twentieth already, we're waiting." the irony of her statement isn't lost on him; she continues regardless: "—Er, one more question, I guess? How are you about good news, bad news right now; scale of one-to-ten?"

Peter shakes his head in lieu of actually being able to rub his eyes. Chem 101: don't touch your face when handling weird black neurotoxin. "What's the good news?"

"Good first, you sure?"

He waves her question away, though for all he can see "Cindy" may as well be support pillar.

"Alright, sooo…Good news is that we won, obviously, and it looks like these two were going to make off with a lot of cash if we hadn't gotten here on time. So. Yay for us!"

Oh.

He gets it, then.

"—But Slyde's gone." Peter interrupts, most of the world coming back into 20/20. "Perfect."

Cindy rubs the scruff of her neck on approach, eyes to the floor and guilt in her every atom. While catching Blindside is a definite mark in the win column, "Silk" hasn't been around long enough to take what victories she can. To her, even one villain getting away is tantamount to her letting them go free. And Peter, he knows where that line of thought can go.

He stands up (shaking only a little) and settles a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, don't sweat it, alright? Maybe Blindside knows where he went," he gestures to the crook with a gentle cant of his head. "And if not…Slyde's not the type to beat yourself up over losing. Might be a different person in the suit now and then, but I get the feeling this new guy's not going on a violent rampage anytime soon."

She's quiet for a moment. Sighs, but chucks him on the shoulder. "You're really bad at pep-talks, Spidey. Anyone ever tell you?"

"Blame it on the blood-loss," he shrugs.

When Blindside comes back around, he finds himself cocooned to the floor with two Spiders crouching over him. On Discovery Channel, this would be the part where they ate him whole.

"So, Blindy. This is the part where we eat you—" Peter sucks in a breath as Cindy elbows him, tries not to rub his side despite the pain. "—Ow. And by that, I mean this is where my lovely assistant and I are going to ask you a few questions about tonight, m'kay? Blink twice for yes, once for no."

He tries to spit at them, misses by a country mile. "My mouth isn't covered, you dumb f—"

Another sudden and on-set case of web-to-mouth. Cindy holds her hand up like a pistol and blows the barrel of her index finger. "As Spider-Man was saying, we've got a few questions for you. First up is if you know where your pal Slyde astroglided off to?"

"Astroglided?" Peter echoes.

She holds a hand up to Peter's face. Blindside blinks.

"Alright, you're either lying—and if so, wow: I guess honor among thieves is a thing even if they're crap—ooooor you don't know." she sighs, runs a hand through her hair in frustration. "Next one's easier, then: did you try to hurt anyone tonight? Outside of us, I mean."

It's slow, but he eventually blinks.

Peter waves a hand in front of Blindside's face. "Didn't hurt anyone, but you obviously upgraded your mix and your suit—don't blink yes for that one, I know your old gear didn't include a facemask." A beat of quiet, "Is it poisonous?"

Blink blink.

"Cool, so if I did this—" he finds the SMG Blindside was using and bring it eye-level, makes sure the man is looking before he crushes the barrel with one hand. "—to the circuit controlling your fan system, all that'd happen is you'd be blind like we were for a while, right?"

He blinks so fast Peter has to tell him to slow down.

"Glad we're all being adults about this," he rocks on the pads of his feet, stroking an imaginary beard. "Was Slyde wearing an upgraded suit, too?"

Blink blink.

"Which explains how he got away, but not how -how." Peter looks at Cindy. She nods before walking over to where Slyde had been, "I know you practically invented this get-up, Blindy, but Slyde's working with a hand-me-down. Did you upgrade his gear for him?"

Blink. Meaning—

"Black Cat did it for you."

—He should've known.

"Just like Dragonclaw, awesome." Cindy adds, walking back. "Looks like she found a new creep to help pimp her guys out for a fun night on the town." she sighs; in some ways, she looks more tired than Peter. "Think they have an eight-hundred number?"

"Phrasing," he gets a roll of her eyes for that. "And, I don't know. When's the last time either of us used the Yellow Pages? Or anyone ever, for that matter?"

She tosses him an incredulous look. "Didn't you—" falters, tries her best to recover. "—oooor best friend work for a newspaper? Yeah, um. That Parker guy…?"

"…Point." the glare he gives back isn't entirely kind. "But, I think our pal here can help us better than spending tonight figuring out if one-eight-hundred-pimp-my-super-villain exists. So," Peter turns back to regard Blindside. "If I take the web off your mouth, you gonna cooperate until the police get here?"

"And not spit at anyone again, geez." Cindy adds, "Your mother raised you better than that."

They give him time to consider. It's a longshot; Blindside owes them nothing, and whatever happens his night still ends on the wrong side of a jail cell. But, Peter hopes.

Blink.

And sometimes, that's enough.

Blink.

They remove the web around Blindside's mouth. From what Peter can tell, there's time enough for maybe a handful of questions at best before the police arrive. "Let's get the easy stuff out of the way first, then. Lightning round!" he explains, raising a hand to count off his fingers. "Black Cat: the where, how, and why. Spill."

His answer is a tense shake of the head. "That's not how this works, Spider. I'm not a goddamn sellout," of course he isn't; they never are. "You know what the Cat does to those who cross her. I'm not ending up like Ringer."

Peter's seen it first hand, but he'd hoped Blindside hadn't. Not yet. It means Black Cat's reputation as a crime lord was growing—and Peter honestly doesn't know how to feel about that. Not yet.

Cindy tilts her head, "Buuut you're still working for her. Robbing banks and stuff? That's just a little weird." she looks at Peter, then nods, apparently satisfied with his none-answer. "Lil' weird, yeah. Who goes from being a free agent to shacking up with Catzilla?"

"She has a point, Blindy. Maybe you changed, but this new Slyde doesn't exactly strike me a "Masters of Terror," material like the old one." Peter steeples his fingers, elbows resting on his knees. "To quote my man Seinfeld: what's up with that?"

Cindy laughs under her breath. "God, you're old."

"Shush, Padawan, the master is at work," Peter leans forward, eyes narrowing. "Blindside knows what I'm getting at. You can't get something for nothing in this town."

"Could be," the crook shrugs, relenting only after a brief pause. "Or would be, I guess. If you two hadn't fucked that to hell and back."

"What do you mean?" Peter asks.

Blindside looks away, mumbling something underneath his breath. Peter doesn't need enhanced senses to understand it's decidedly unkind.

He tries to throw the crook a lifeline. "Sorry, I didn't quite hear that?"

"Eat shit, Spider." the man growls.

Cindy flicks Blindside square on the forehead, his skull smacking back against the floor with an audible thud. "Rude, much?"

"So…" Peter waits for Blindside to lift his head. "We stopped you and Slyde from robbing this bank, but that's kind of a slow Tuesday the way New York is right now." He crosses his arms, rocks back on his heels. "I'll ask again: where's Cat figure in?"

"Maybe this shithole reminds her of a Calico she had?" the tough guy act is starting to fray Peter's last nerve. "Who the hell even knows, way she's been acting lately."

Peter's eyebrow goes up of its own accord. "Aaaaaand stoolie says what, now?"

The look on Blindside's face—the lower, uncovered portion at least—is one Peter knows rather well. Jaw opens slightly, closes, a swirl of the tongue against the insider of a cheek, entire head canting slightly to the left; the look of a man caught letting on more than he should know. Peter tries not to sigh in relief.

They're getting somewhere.

"You want to work for her, but you think she's nuts. Slyde made it sound like you two weren't just here for money." Cindy offers, sounding none-too-impressed. "God, why do I feel like your ex was, like, Queen Mean Girl back in high-school?"

Peter scoffs. "That's not the Black Cat I know, believe me."

"Ever hear the words "trial run," you idiots?" Blindside snarls with contempt. "The fuck do you think is going on—that the Cat just throws a bone to any ex-con with a suit and a record?"

Peter and Cindy share a look, both shrugging at the same time. "Seems like it."

"Fuck you." Blindside twists against the webs cocooning him, veins in his neck straining. "—Can't believe I get pinched the night you two freaks are out on a date. What're the odds?"

"Zero-to-nil, since that's not what's going on." Cindy taps Peter on the shoulder, leans in close to whisper: "Kinda running out of time here, P. Silk-sense is telling me New York's Finest are three, maybe two streets away."

"Don't make a big to do about it," he whispers back before clapping his hands. "Alright, lightning round's over, ladies and germs! Now let's figure out what exactly our fabulous contestant has won!" police sirens wail in the distance, drawing closer. "Oh, the network is telling me he has to answer one more question before we break for commercials. Mister Blind, would that be alright with you?"

The corner of Blindside's mouth twitches. "There aren't enough middle fingers in the world, Spider-Man."

"Dude, you're going to jail either way," Cindy explains, hand on one hip. "Maybe being nice'll help us pay back the favor."

Peter nods, emphatic. "I know people on the force, Blindy. Good people—they can help you, maybe get you reduced sentencing, but it's all on you. Helping put Black Cat behind bars will make settling all of this Games of Thrones Mafioso junk going on a lot easier."

Blindside seems to consider that for a moment, laying there prone and immobile. Peter knows they won't have time to go over fine details, but just a simple "yes" could lead to so much. Tonight they won't bring Black Cat's burgeoning empire down, he knows that, but if they have an in…if Blindside agrees to help, they at least have a start. Dynamite and a layout of castle walls. He waits, imagines the police are awfully, awfully close by now.

"…Fine, Spider, have it your way." Blindside sighs, almost heaves exhaustion at them, "I'll talk. But if you don't come through for me on this, I fucking swear—"

Spider-sense and a rush of heat.

The rest becomes an anguished scream, the exposed parts of Blindside's suit shifting from matte black to incandescent, blistering red within the span of a heartbeat.

Footnotes

The Kingpin was ousted from New York by the Superior Spider-Man in "Superior Spider-man #14," and is presumed missing since the events of the graphic novel "Spider-Man: Family Business."