The doors fly open, filling the apartment with a warm, yellow glow. A hand fumbles for the lightswitch, feeling blindly against the wall before flicking down. The ceiling light flickers on, the old bulb barely providing enough light to see as the door swings to. Footsteps lead up to a desk covered by papers; newspaper clippings, dating back to December '22. In a single swift, aggressive maneuvre, they are swept aside before a bundle of red and blue takes their place. A set of gloved hands open it up, revealing the design of the suit; a subtle webbing, the placement of red and blue fabrics, the black spider emblem in the centre of the chest, below which lies a note. The hands pick it up, brining it closer for the eyes to read: "Suction gloves. 'Web' projectiles. Moulded body armour". Nice.
The note is tossed aside as the hands work on further unfolding the costume. Its mask is about to drop to the floor before one hand swiftly moves to grab it, trembling as it raises it to meet the eyes. It's perfect. It's all perfect! God, how well it has come together! This was no ordinary job, that was already certain; but still, how marvelous it was to hold this immaculate creation in these hands! The eyes gleefully glance up to the wall behind the desk; a notice board provides more space for clippings. "MASKED VIGILANTE SWEEPS IN, SAVES CHILD FROM ROAD ACCIDENT". "LOCAL HERO RUSHES KNIFE VICTIM TO HOSPITAL". "SPECTACULAR: WEBBED CRIMINALS DANGLE FROM STREET LIGHTS". "WHO IS SPIDER-MAN? QUEENS' LOCAL HERO EXPLORED". There must be hundreds of pictures that had been collected over the past months. No image was left behind, no matter how blurred or how far away it was taken. Nothing could be left behind, not for this operation. All the media available was required.
Ears pick up on a quiet voice. The TV had been left playing, the volume almost muted. Grabbing the remote and mashing the plus volume button, the voice is better heard. "...just wanted to help as many people as possible. Didn't care about risking his life, just wanted to get those people out of there."
The footage cuts to a new face, a bald, white male in his fifties, the right side of his face scarred. "If not for Spider-Man, I'm sure I'd have burnt alive that day. He came in right at the last second and saved my life. Some people would criticize him for that, say that he should have come sooner. I'm grateful he came at all. I'm lucky to have escaped with just these injuries," he points to his wounds.
A small girl is up next, aged about ten or eleven. Latin-American, dark brown hair. "My mom had a gun pointed at her. I remember holding on to her and sort of hiding my face in her arms. When I opened my eyes again and looked back, the man was gone. My mom pointed; he was dangling by his feet, like, ten foot above us."
-GAME OF TRICKS-
A window slides open, casting dim moonlight into a messy room, easily identifiable as that of a teenage boy's. Not helped by its small dimension, it appears particularly cluttered as textbooks occupy its desk and worn clothes lie all over the floor. A silhouette is cast onto the room of a hunched figure, awkwardly craning his head to fit through the entrance. With a dull thud, they trip and land on the floor beneath the window. In a panic, the intruder quickly stands and begins to undress, first throwing his mask off. Peter Parker gasps for breath as he unstraps his web shooters, dropping them on the bed before pulling his red gloves off. After six months of being Spider-Man, he'd have thought he'd be better at these sneaky entrances by now; evidently, this wasn't the case.
Speedily removing the top and bottoms of his suit, Peter stood still, naked except for his underwear, listening out for any sounds from down the hall. Nothing. The house was dead silent, the only noise being the wind rushing through the open window. Shuddering in the cold breeze, Peter rushed to pull it shut before using his tired legs to drag himself into bed. He briefly reflected on his adventures that night. Being shot at was definitely not getting any easier for him, no matter how effortlessly he could dodge the bullets. Still, he had gone out that night and acted as a force for good. Who knows how many lives could change because of those acts? Ben would be proud, if he were around to see it. Feeling his eyelids growing tired, Peter gave into his body's needs and allowed them to close, falling asleep just seconds later.
-GAME OF TRICKS-
The daughter takes a small cardboard box of goods from her mother. "You know where to put these?" the mother asks.
"Yes," the daughter affirms with attitude, rolling her eyes as if she hadn't helped her out with this a million times before.
"Less of the attitude," the mother warns sternly, "If you're getting tired, just rest. You don't have to help, you know."
"I need the pocket money," the daughter replies, holding the box under one arm while she plays with a loose earphone, twiddling the wire connecting it to her phone. "Plus, I've finished all my school work. I've got nothing."
"Leaving it until the last minute, as always," the mother tuts, "Won't you be tired tomorrow?"
"I'll be fine," the daughter assures, not allowing the mother to get another word in as she inserts the earphone into her right ear. She reaches into her jean pocket, turning up the volume on her phone and letting the door swing to behind her. The daughter hums along to her music as she walks down the shop aisle, bouncing with each step, before lowering the box to the floor, squatting to pick up the items one-by-one before placing them along the shelves. It's easy work, so she doesn't mind staying up late to get a little pay for it. Having emptied the box, the daughter stands and turns in the direction of the door to check on her dad at the cash register.
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops. Spider-Man; but it can't be! What could he possibly be doing here? Not complaining, the daughter's mouth curls into a beaming smile and, squealing like a fan-girl, she runs up to the hero. Words tumbled out of her mouth; "Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Spider-Man! I-"
Thwack. In the blink of an eye, the daughter found herself several feet in the opposite direction. Her ears were ringing and her head started spinning as she coped with the shock, unable to even process what just happened to her. Feeling her legs go weak, she was surprised to find that she didn't collapse to the floor, until she realised that she couldn't. In fact, she could barely move a muscle. Straining to look down at herself, the daughter's breathing grew rapid and panicked as she found herself covered in white, sticky webbing. Barely processing it, her attention diverted to the front of the shop, hearing the pleading cries of her father.
"Please, please don't shoot - please don't harm my wife or daughter..."
"Then listen: open up the cash register and give us everything! And I mean every last penny, you got that?!"
"Please, sir, there's no need for this - we're a family business, I beg-"
"I'll give you something to beg about! Hand it over, now!"
From behind her, the daughter felt her mother's fists pounding against the door. "Anika?! Anika?! What's going on out there? Peter?!"
Anika sobbed quietly, not wanting to bring attention to herself as paper and coins changed hands at the front of the shop.
"We're done," she heard the same, gruff voice as before announce. Eyes wide with fear, Anika watched three men in black clothing exit the store, each of them armed. More frightened than ever before, Anika froze when she saw Spider-Man walk into the doorway before stopping abruptly and turning his head, looking back at her through the white lens of his mask. She didn't dare breathe until he suddenly turned his head back around, fleeing the scene with his fellow criminals.