-This fic is kinda hard to write, so updates might be scarce, okay? Anyway, here's the scoop:
Crossfire is my character-I don't care if there's a guy in Avengers Comics with his name-he's mine. However, he's modeled after the second Ricochet in costume and personality. And they're both in college. Whatever-SF12
Disclaimer: Matt Dale is the sole main character in this chapter who's mine. That's it.
The very next morning, Spider-Man was swinging through Flatiron region at 9:00.
"Now everybody freeze!" A thug commanded, holding his pistol to the cashier's head.
"Hand all of your money to Rex! If you don't…" He cocked the gun.
The cashier, a nervous-looking, bald man whose nametag identified him as Herb, nodded.
Spider-Man leaped into the building, disarming the two crooks and webbing them together. Then he was off-the whole process took less than sixty seconds
Ordinarily, Spidey would've stopped for a quip, but today was different.
Spidey swung past the Bugle building, the Flatiron building, and several other establishments before landing with a thump atop the Chelsea Hospital.
Peter Parker rushed through the main doors, skidding to a halt before the receptionist's desk.
"What room is Matthew-Christian Dale in?"
"316, Shock Recovery Ward. But only family are allowed to-"
He was already gone.
The same doctor was there, keeping an eagle eye on her patients.
"I'm here to visit Matt Dale-if he's okay?"
Hearing the name, the doctor turned full attention toward him.
"He's okay, but…"
"What?" Please don't say he's "exhibiting spider-powers".
"His recovery…it's amazing. He healed perfectly…it's a medical marvel!"
He smiled. Matt was okay. That was a good sign.
Peter brushed past the doctor, into Room 316.
Matt Dale was half-sitting, half-lying on his hospital bed, watching the Eagles batter the Browns into a pulp. He grinned as Peter entered
"God, its good to see a familiar face. I've been here one night and I'm already sick of it!"
Peter laughed. "Then, you're alright, kid?"
"More than alright. Better. Better than I've felt in a long time. I can't explain it."
Peter at first thought that this was a good sign, but than the smile froze on his lips.
Of course. How could I be so stupid? When he'd awoken, after the painful night on which his spider-powers formed, he'd felt great. Better than ever.
The doctor entered at this moment.
"Why won't you let me out? I'm fine, I feel great. I want to go home." Matt bombarded her with proclamations of healthiness until she held a hand up for silence.
"But, you shouldn't be fine…"
Matt looked her square in the eye. "Dr. Long, don't you have worse cases to worry about?"
She held his gaze for a moment, and then nodded. "Consider yourself checked out, Mr. Dale."
Matt Dale whooped, running out of the room faster than imaginable. He yelled a "Later, Pete" over his shoulder, and then he was gone.
Yep, there was the evidence. Super-speed.
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He'd never felt so good!
Matt Dale's little Pontiac Sunfire worked its way through the traffic with ease; sliding into spots so quickly you'd hardly know it happened. Matt was a good driver, but he'd noticed that his instincts were on fire today. He always seemed to know just when he wouldn't get hit. Must just be a lucky day.
Ordinarily, he would've balked at the idea of driving home. He lived in Queens, and the hospital was in Manhattan. But, there was a subway pilot strike, so his parents had dropped off his car when they came to visit. Fortunately, he'd given them the spare key.
Odd…A mental buzz seemed to go off in his head. A foresight…something tugging him towards something else…
A car was coming at them... It was out of control-it was careening towards his lane…
Driving in New York was always dangerous. He knew that. So he didn't hesitate.
Matt stomped on the gas.
The Sunfire flew to the right, just missing an SUV, and headed right for a small construction ramp by the new Chelsea apartment buildings.
The car zoomed up the ramp, and landed behind the flow of traffic, safe.
Behind him, twenty cars smashed into one another, like dominoes.
Letting out a deep breath, Matt tried to contemplate how the heck he did that.
"Help! Lord Almighty, somebody help! I…can't move…the pain…my ankle…"
Matt rushed out from his car, searching for the voice.
Behind the line of crashed cars, an urgent alarm bell went off. An injured woman…He couldn't get to the woman- four cars lay in a lopsided heap, blocking his way.
Unless…
No, it was crazy. He'd never make it.
But he had to try.
Backing down a street, he sprinted like never before and leaped.
He was twenty feet in the air, and landed on his feet with a thump. He winced, preparing for the pain…
But it did not come. It was as if he had merely…hopped. Like magic.
Deciding to ponder that later, he rushed to help the woman.
She was pinned down by her coupe. She needed help. He could try to lift it, maybe.
To Matt's great surprise, he lifted the car like it weighed about sixty pounds, and tossed it away.
In pain, she still managed to gasp out, "How did you that?"
He grinned wryly. "I wish I knew."
At that moment the paramedics arrived. Seeing as he was of no further use, Matt got back on the road, and tried to figure out what was going on.
Okay, I jumped two stories into the air and I avoided a wreck before anybody knew it was coming. What could be happening? What in the world? It was almost as if he had…
He couldn't say it. He couldn't think it, it was so loony.
Superpowers.
Oh, come on. What are the chances that I randomly got superpowers? Okay, so I've had an odd couple of days. What would give me powers? The shock? Or even the blood…
Oh God. Blood transfusion.
Matt Dale wasn't a leading scientist, but even he knew this-blood contains DNA.
He flipped a U-turn, making a beeline back to the hospital.
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"Dr. Long!"
The good doctor looked up in surprise. "Mister Dale? I thought you left."
"I did."
"Are you feeling worse?" Matt could fell her gaze-she was searching for symptoms.
"No, I'm fine. I just wanted to know who those blood donors were. I want to thank them." He added that part at the last minute. Dr. Long was bright-he needed an excuse.
"Oh." She looked distracted by a piece of paperwork. "Check your file-to the left."
Matt thanked her and rifled through the files on the desk. Dabs, Dagwood…Dale!
He flipped through the information quickly and came to the blood donation forms.
He took a deep breath and looked at the first name.
J. Jonah Jameson.
Well, he's out. He's made his opinion on Spidey very clear.
But, wait. That would be genius-it would never be suspected that Jonah is the very person he criticizes. Yes!
Wait-duh!
How could he be so dumb? Jameson was pushing sixty, and wasn't really in shape. Spider-Man was an athlete, and from what Matt could discern from the voice, he was fairly young.
He flipped to the next page.
Peter Parker.
"I'm well-known for knowing the secret to getting the impossible shot of him."
Of course.
"If I told you that, it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?"It all clicked.
Peter Parker was Spider-Man.
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Spider-Man swung through the city, on the lookout for any type of crime. Anything to get guilt off his mind.
It had been a week since he'd visited Matt Dale at the Chelsea Hospital, and he still felt odd.
He'd seen Matt a lot since then-they both worked at the Bugle, after all. And he was different-late often, and always seemed like he'd missed just one hour of sleep, making him half-tired, half-eager.
But if he knew he was a superhuman, he sure wasn't letting on to it.
Peter couldn't believe the extent of his guilt- but it was understandable.
He hated creating another one like himself. Cursing another to the hero's fate, assuming Matt ever became one. Somebody grappling with life as one and life as another.
His spider-sense tingled briefly-A car alarm went off two streets down.
Jumping to the building above five thugs attempting to hotwire a fancy Cadillac. He prepared to swing down there and stop them, but someone beat him to it.
A grappling hook attached to a nearby building and a man in a thick, hooded blue parka swung from it, landing next to the goons.
Two long-barreled guns appeared in the newcomer's hands, and he brought the barrels down on two of the punks' heads with a crack.
The burliest guy tried to hit him, but to Spidey's surprise, the stranger back-flipped away and fired one of his guns.
Spider-Man winced. Why wasn't he down there? Someone was probably dead by now!
But no…the man fell all right, but a tranquilizer dart was stuck in his back.
The stranger leaped high into the air and shot with both guns. Thik! Thik! Two simultaneous perfect hits. The last two criminals were accounted for.
The person didn't even touch the ground; he drew a strange weapon and fired a grappling hook, swinging away.
Spider-Man followed. He knew, for sure, who that was.
The stranger was difficult to keep up with-he was quite fast and agile, swinging from rope to rope.
But Spider-Man had been doing this kind of thing for years, and he caught up eventually.
They both landed softly on a rooftop.
In a lightning-quick motion, the man in the parka spun around, pulling a revolver from his pocket, aiming it at Spider-Man.
He relaxed, however, when he saw who was following him. He lowered the gun, but Spider-Man noticed he did not put it away.
They stood there, not knowing what to say, for a few moments.
The man in the parka broke the silence. "Thank you for your gift, Peter."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play that game. You know who I am, and I know who you are." He threw back the hood, and Peter's suspicions were confirmed. It was indeed Matt Dale.
"You saved my life with your blood, and I've always wanted to be a hero-I call myself Crossfire. Now I am what I dreamed of. Thank you."
Peter's throat felt dry. "You're welcome."
"I was thinking, you know, we have the same powers. Every hero needs a partner…"
"No." The words were out of Peter's mouth before Matt finished speaking.
"Why not?"
Peter looked at him through the solemn, opaque lenses that hid his eyes. "Because no matter how powerful you are, if you die, you stay dead. Nothing can change that. And I don't need another death on my hands." With that, Peter cast a web-line and was gone.
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Two buildings away, every second of that exchange was being taped and photographed by a man.
You might not recognize this man on the street, unless he was wearing his armor.
This man was Norman Osborn and he hated Spider-Man.
This man was the Green Goblin.
When he and Electro had broken out of The Vault, only one thing had been on his mind:
Kill Peter Parker. Kill the man who called himself Spider-Man. Kill the man who had put him in jail.
And this young teen might be the key to success.
Osborn picked up a cellular phone and dialed a number.
"Smerdyakov? I have a job for you."
-God, that took more thought then humanely possible. Please, R&R-SF12