The Warrior with No Name
By The Odd Little Turtle Named Froggie
(Guess what – if Marvel created them, then they belong to Marvel. I created some characters too, but they're expendable…
Okay, this chapter got too long so I've shortened it into manageable sections with much and more tweaking. I also sat down and made a better outline and did research on Jewish mourning traditions. I actually know what's going to happen now! I'm thrilled!
Input greatly appreciated. Poking with a stick helps too.)
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April 4th – again…
Dear Diary,
Ok, so, I'm back. The lunch I thought went ok? Well, maybe it didn't. Peter hasn't called. I might be jumping the gun because I know from past experience that boy time doesn't equate to girl time. I used to have this silly equation worked out. Four hours equals nine hours and divide it by the street address and cube it--or something like that. I probably have my notes in a box in the attic at Xavier's. Or did before it was rebuilt.
Again.
So I panicked, ok? I have very few memories that aren't clouded by—well, everything. Between Emma and Ogun and the bombings, last year was full. You'd think that after as much counseling that I've had… I don't want to get into that right now.
Gah! I don't know if it was the prospect of meeting his sister and possibly have her hate me or the fact that Logan would be present. Logan. He didn't even sit Shiva with me. I don't want to talk to him, and I don't want to talk about him. I promised Peter I would tell him. What was I thinking?
A full year tomorrow. Yartzeit. Twelve months of loss. I bought the candles today. I even bought one for Michael. Not sure how I feel about that.
My shift at Riff's starts at nine tonight, and I'm meeting with Peter Parker. He said he would stop by. I'm going to ask him about The Bronx. Hopefully he saw something. Now, I get to add another person to the list of people who know about my rotten date with Wally the Worm. Joyous of joy-joys.
I'm never, ever going on a date again.
Ever.
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Manuel Hernandez was never a patient man. He glanced across the street from where he stood, his dark eyes hooded like a hawk. The apartment building was one of the oldest on the block, but it looked in pretty good shape for its age. Some of its many window shutters were missing and the paint was chipping in places, but all-in-all it didn't look over fifty years old. Several of the lights were still on. He checked his watch, it was only ten thirty. As long as the lights were off on the first three floors, it would be easy to get the job done.
He lit a cigarette, sucking the smoke into his mouth, and then inhaling it into his lungs. The streets were still busy at this time of night, but in a city with over nine million people, it was to be expected. The Bronx held about one million or so of those nine million. Still, it made Manuel a little uneasy. He blew the smoke out of his nose. The job was supposed to be easy. Last night they had ripped off the Old Broad; tonight, though, they would make sure whatever she told the cops wouldn't be traced back to them.
He waited, trying not to look nervous. It wasn't as though he never did this sort of thing before. He just didn't want the cops to show up. They were supposed to stake out the area, make sure the coast was clear before going in. He took another drag of his cigarette.
At least it was Thursday and not Friday. First, he had promised his girl, Teresa, that this Friday, he'd take her to that pizza place she always liked to go to. He wasn't about to get dog house treatment just to off some old witch that got in his way. Second, Friday night was too busy to really do what needed to be done without the complication of someone spotting them. They were casing the joint to make sure everything went smoothly.
After about thirty minutes more, Manuel walked casually to alley on the right side of the apartment building. There Ricky Gonzalez fooled around with the fire escape. He wasn't making much noise, but it was enough to make Manuel more nervous than he was.
"Esé, I don' think that's such a good idea," Manuel told him. "Too much noise."
Ricky looked up at him from under his hoodie. "What if she makes a run for it?" he questioned, but stopped tinkering.
"She won't," Manuel told him. "Just keep an eye out for anyone an' don' make too much noise or draw too much attention about it."
"When's Victor supposed to be here?"
"He'll be here when he gets here," Manuel started to leave. The less Ricky knew the better. Manuel didn't want to have to ice him. He was a good homey. But if he found out that his loyalty was to anyone but himself, Manuel would take him out in an instant. No witnesses meant no jail time.
He walked around the building and checked on everyone else. Carlito Espinosa was in the other alley. He had nothing to report, so Manuel made the full circle to just the left of the building where Juan Garcia lounged on the front steps of the building next door. He pretended to be listening to his MePod.
From Juan Manuel found out that Juan's older brother Victor would be there around midnight. That way it wouldn't look too suspicious that they were lugging several gallons of gasoline. And the shit was expensive now anyway. Victor had had to get the money from somewhere, and Manuel wasn't about to ask. He didn't want to be targeted by the Brothers Garcia.
It was just before midnight when the Old Broad's lights finally went out. That was the signal. Light the place up and to hell with the consequences. The fire would cover up anything they stole. If it hadn't been for whatever loser had torn out of the area last night with those damned screeching tires and Carlito hadn't freaked, they would have finished the job then.
Now they just had to wait for Victor to show up with the gas.
#
"I'll keep an eye out the next few nights, alright?"
Kitty smiled gratefully at the taller man, her lips parting, exposing pearl white teeth. Peter Parker gave a meek smile in return, his liquid brown eyes soft and reassuring. "Thanks so much, Peter."
He nodded, and made his way away from Kitty, the bar, shouldering his way through crowd, his lips drawn, his eyes flat. It was nice to see her away from class, but he definitely was not coming back here. The first irritant of Riff's on the River—if you excluded the two bouncers ogling him like so much fresh sushi—was the heavy cloud of smoke. It hung heavily in the air, seizing his ability to breath properly, and making his eyes water. The second irritant of Riff's on the River was the loud music. Sure he liked rock and roll as much as the next guy, but, for crying out loud, one of the speakers was as tall as he was and sitting on the bar! The pounding bass of the live band pulsed through his brain and gave him a headache with an attitude.
After hearing how Kitty had met Peter Rasputin, Peter Parker, the Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman, wanted to choke the life out of the man he knew to be Wallace Corburn. Wally the Worm indeed, he thought, giving a nod to the bouncer—the only other one that wasn't ogling him—at the door. As he left Riff's on the River, the chilly April air hit Parker in the face, his ears still ringing from the raucous music of Deep Shag.
Worried that he missed something while on patrol that night, Peter ducked down the alley and removed his "civilian" clothes, slipping the mask over his face and making sure his web shooters were full and secure on his wrists. He climbed the building and web slung in the direction of The Bronx.
#
Kitty Pryde watched the lean but muscular form of Peter Parker leave. She grinned as she noticed he stayed as far away from Jacques and Raoul as he possibly could. Hell, she would have, too were she in his shoes. Those two were eying him up and down like the fresh catch of the day. Poor Peter, she thought, turning her attention back to the nearest customer, a young-ish looking man with a black
goatee and no hair. His green eyes were glossy. When he ordered his fifth round she cut him off and called a cab for him.
Four hours later, she had already called six cabs for various different patrons. Rubbing her brow, Kitty wondered why anyone would turn to booze the way these folks did. She was a former X-man and had been through more stuff than most guys could even imagine. Shaking her head, she plastered a smile on her face that she hoped looked genuine and mixed another drink for a man who was obviously going to be taking the busty brunette with him home.
"Kitteness."
Kitty grinned, turned to her boss, Sal Ricci. Bald, tattooed and only five foot two and no more than eighty pounds soaking wet, Sal's voice was soothing, melodic and carried a resonance that bellied her diminutive stature. It also helped that the live band was packing up their equipment having finished up fifteen minutes before.
"Last call?" Kitty asked the shorter woman, a vein of hope laced in her voice.
Throwing her bald tattooed head back, Sal let loose a peal of laughter. "Definitely," she said, her brown eyes shining brightly.
Kitty whooped and let the patrons know that the bar was closing. After the last of the patrons had staggered out and the band had been paid, Sal confronted her. "Look, I can't tell you enough how sorry I am for Wally's behavior."
Biting her lip, Kitty looked away. "It'll be alright, Sal. He was a jerk."
Sal leaned against the bar, studiously ignoring her friend's discomfort. "So tell me again about big, tall and Russian." Kitty's visage brightened considerably. Sal could only grin. She knew there was a silver lining to everything. Sometimes it just took a microscope and pair of tweezers to find it.
"Well," Kitty began, but was interrupted by her cell phone. "Who in the world would be calling me at two a.m.?" she wondered aloud. The number was vaguely familiar. "Hello?"
"Kitty?" Piotr Rasputin's voice asked. "It's late, but I—I am in need of your assistance."
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(More coming. This was the best place to end it. Tweaking the next part. I'm actually going to go by my notes. Spoon!)