Of Heroes and Hellions

Chapter 4: Step Into the Night

The air feels tense. Any breathable particles have been vaporized, cloaked, gagged and withered away in the darkness that is Miss Direction. A certain heaviness has descended upon the conurbation as they wait. But New York has always been a city of movement, not stillness, and the inhabitants are becoming restless.

Anne watches the dark sky through the tinted windows of the car. It is the calm before the storm. The clouds are gray and heavy, aching for release. And the earth wants this too even if it means to be drowned in the storm's torrent. She sits in the back, her eyes panning over the skyline thoughtfully as her driver—Happy Hogan, a family friend—moves the vehicle skillfully through the clogged and dirty streets. The seat partition is down but Happy does not attempt to engage the young girl in conversation. He has long since learned her moods. He can see in the slight furrow of her brow and the strait line of her lips, lips that are usually upturned and split wide, and the far off look in her eyes that she is in a thoughtful state. It is a state he would do best not to interrupt. If he did she would become flustered, her hair would scatter as she shook her head, cheeks rushing pink. No, he will not interrupt her.

The wind picks up a stray flier skirting aimlessly across the sidewalk, skillfully avoiding pedestrian feet as if it has eyes of its own to see with. The paper tumbles midair wavering a bit—it's hesitating, quivering—before it connects with the darkened glass of the 2014 black Lincoln Town car. Anne rocks in her seat a bit, startled, her cheeks flushing the same rouge Happy had imagined would happen if he had interrupted her just moments previous. The paper flails in the wind, smacking against the glass with ugly flapping noises. Anne rakes her hair back with her fingers and she thinks she catches a bolded heading in large yellow block letters, a swirl of red hair, a woman dressed in a mock carnie costume, before the wind picks up the page and sweeps it away again.

Anne slumps in her seat, her mind sliding over images of other certain red heads. The rain has begun to fall now, slowly and just one drop at a time, she counts five that hit her window and watches as they slide down the pane. The second farthest to the left reaches the bottom first only to slide through the crack between the door panel and the window, lost to the outside world forever. The car comes to a slow stop, rocking forward a bit in the end as it comes to a complete halt in front of the towering structure Anne calls home. Happy trots around the side of the Town car to pull open her door. The brunette ducks her head and clambers out of the vehicle, taking a moment to stretch her long legs and feel the peaceful fall of water against her skin. One, two, three drops and then they come in quicker succession, ten, thirteen, twenty, more violently and harder and soon there are too many to count. Her hair is soaked by the time she makes it to the building. Her jacket drips a trail of tears along her path and the hems of her waterlogged jeans drag along the lobby floor.

Once again, a semi-empty apartment greets her. Peter is the only inhabitant and he stands over the island in the kitchen nibbling on the edges of heavily browned toast slathered in peanut butter. He nods casually in her direction but they don't bother with conversation. They both know that they have things to do, the same goal but different processes. Peter will hunt out the red headed villainess within the dark recesses of the city and Anne will meet with the rest of the registered heroes and plan a thorough attack. She wishes it to be different. Every night Anne swivels in her chair, eliciting high-pitched squeaking noises from the joints of her seat, and wishes to take action. Every night her father—The Captain—shoots her half-understanding half-irritated glances across the meeting table. Every night Father-number-two sips on glass after glass of coffee, his eyes drooping in fatigue but his grin charming as ever. Every night the Black Widow sits ramrod straight in her patent leather cat suit and speaks in commanding tones. Every night Hawkeye cracks halfhearted jokes and busies his hands by completing trick shots on a miniature scale with a paper clip, a few wads of paper, and a single rubber band. Every night Bruce Banner rubs his tired eyes and inserts factual and dually helpful comments. Every night Thor speaks in a voice a single level too loud for the late hour.

Peter's every night is very different. This every night is very different. Because this is the very night that he meets the Night.

Night's hair is a contradiction; it is a cool offset color that reflects the same light that the rest of her body absorbs. Her costume is sewn out of the same shadows she lives within. It makes him feel conspicuous like a flashing neon sign pointing out his location, all red and blue and white wired webs. He can't see her eyes—they are hidden behind the whites of her angled domino mask—but he can tell that they are just as dark as the rest of her.

"I had heard rumors that you and the big bad bat had moved into town." He's hanging upside down, facing her back. He had thought he was sneaking up on her but when his voice reflects off the concrete buildings to meet her ears she does not seem surprised.

"And you were curious," she says; it isn't a question, "so you decided to find out for yourself." She doesn't seem angry. Her tone is casual; the inflections are low and monotone. If one cared enough to strain their ears they might find a slightly mocking tone behind it all. She doesn't ask him what his impression is, whether or not he is impressed with her like he had expected her to. He's not sure what he would say if she did anyways. Dark maybe. Yes, she's definitely very dark. But is he impressed? He isn't sure. He has seen a lot but he hasn't seen enough of her yet.

"Why?" he asks.

"I could ask you the same thing," she has started moving again, long strides that make her muscles ripple beneath her tight costume, "but the difference between you and me is I already know." And then she's picking up speed and leaping from the building top; in a single cat-like movement she twists in the air. If her eyes hadn't been shielded he might have seen her wink. He follows after her; the jump is short enough that he can make it without his webs. He lands just as she's midair again, halfway between his building and the next, the space is wider and he feels a certain tightness in his throat when he thinks of the harrowing fall.

It has gotten to the point where he doesn't need to think to use his web shooters; his adaptive unconscious works the processes out for him. They are a part of him now. He doesn't need to think now. He doesn't need to…

Aim. Shoot. Thwap. The web catches her between the shoulder blades and tugs her up short. Her spine arches and her neck tightens in the kick back, the pit of her stomach dropping as she feels the familiar sensation of falling only to be cut short again. She dangles there, on the side of the high-rise building, the chill of the stone unable to penetrate her suit. Peter pears over the edge at her; her chin is tilted upward to give him a look that could burn and her arms are crossed over her chest in a way that shows she is far too relaxed in her potentially precarious position. "I can't hang around all night, Spidey." He wonders if she realizes the pun she just made or if it was inadvertent. He suspects the ladder.

"You could die," he means to speak of right-now that follows her risky leap but he can't help but think that the statement carries. Nobody tells you when you're a kid, but heroes die too.

"So could you if you continue to be a problem." Spiderman laughs at this but it ends in a nervous chuckle because all he knows her by is her reputation and its about as dark as the costume she dresses in. He sees her hands move to a sheath on her belt and then the tell tale glint of a silver blade. He scrambles backward onto the roof, scattering pebbles and dirt to avoid her aim but the blade never comes. He counts out the seconds until he reaches a wobbly five minutes before peering over the edge again but she's gone. All that is left for him to see is the splayed ends of his sliced web. His eyes scan the sidewalk below but it is free of all ashy blonde hair, dark super suits, and scarlet blood.

Yes, he decides. He is impressed now.

Anne's every night is very much the same, she thinks. The room's lights are dimmed low and a large projection hangs midair playing and replaying the video of a night that happened just a week previous. The teenaged brunette shuffles through the thin stack of papers that each Avenger has in their own manila folder. It isn't a lot, a black and white photograph that was taken from a zoom in of the video, a brief description:

Gender: Female

Hair color: Red

Eye color: Brown

Height: 5"7 inches (?)

Weight: 130 pounds (?)

It goes on to explain that her powers, while not extensively studied, seem to be manipulation of reality. In a sense, she's a real life magician. This statement alone is enough to send Tony Stark into a fit; he does not believe in magic, not even when he is sitting next to a Norse god. Her background history is virtually nonexistent and they don't even have a true name to put to the face.

Theories get tossed around, ideas rejected. It is hard to fight an enemy you don't know, and even harder to plan for them.

"Stay posted for the date of my next act," she had said.

I am coming, is what she had meant.