Chapter 6: Fear the Vulture
"Let's go! I wanna get out of here before traffic really gets insane!"
"Take it easy, old-timer. Jeez, Crenshaw, you are cranky without your morning libation."
The first glow of daylight had begun to shine through the early morning gloom and illuminate the loading docks outside of OsCorp. An older man drummed his fingers against the cab of an official OsCorp semi and waited for his junior coworker to hand him a thermos full of coffee.
"You're chipper this morning, Bob," Crenshaw muttered. "What's got you so excited?"
"Earlier I start in the morning, earlier I get to go home," Bob gave a short yawn before taking a sip from his own thermos. "Plus, we only have one delivery today, so there's that. But you're looking worse than normal, you lose much last night?"
"I don't wanna talk about it," the older man growled while taking a long draught of coffee. Not noticing or not caring about the temperature. "I gotta stop being an optimist and just bet against the Mets like any smart person would do. Anyway, you drive. I'm not up for this right now."
The two men piled into the truck with the younger Bob at the helm. After passing through the security gate, the truck stopped before turning onto the city streets while the younger man fiddled with his MP3 player before plugging it into the dash.
"What are you doing?" Crenshaw asked, not understanding at all what his coworker was doing with the assorted electronics.
"You know the rules. He who drives chooses the music," the driver piped up. "And I've got a new playlist I've been dying to jam to."
A few seconds later the pounding of drums and the wailing of electric guitars started blasting through the speakers and Crenshaw flinched.
"What is this?!" He shouted over the din and chants of "Red Sun" playing in the background. "Some new metal band?"
"Jamie Christopherson from the Metal Gear Rising soundtrack," Bob grinned. "The whole playlist is tracks from video games.
"I'm not listening to this, I can't hear myself think!" and the older man paused the track.
"I'll turn down the volume for you, but my drive, my music." And the music switched back on.
Golden rays of the glorious sunshine,
Setting down, such a blood-red light,
Now the animals slowly retreat,
To the shadows-out of sight.
"I'm not listening to some crap from some crappy video game!" The song was switched off once more.
"Seriously?" Bob asked incredulously. "You are such a snob. There's great music to be found here, you can't just dismiss it because you don't like that it comes from video games." And he flipped the music back on.
"I'm not a snob," Crenshaw replied quickly. "It's just…ugh. Do you have anything lighter on there? I've got the headache from hell and this-whatever it is isn't helpin'."
Arid winds blow across the mountains,
Giving flight to the birds of prey,
In the distance machines come to transform Eden,
Day by day.
"How much did you drink last night?" Bob asked, flipping the music off once more for his senior's sake.
"I needed something to take my mind off my bad choices."
"Well, the early day will do you good. And we only have to go to Brooklyn, so there's that."
"I hate Brooklyn and I'm not thinking about today, I'm thinking about all the shifts I'm gonna have to take to make up for.."
"WHOA! Did you see that?" Bob suddenly cut him off.
"See what?" Crenshaw asked. "There's nothing around here."
"Check your mirror," the driver said panickedly. "'Cuz I just saw something big swoop by us!"
"It was probably just some bird," the passenger scoffed. "Yer getting worked up over nothing."
"Biggest damn bird I've ever seen. Looked like an overgrown stork," Bob looked nervous.
"It's nothing, would you stop worrying? You've seen how big the pigeons get, right? So what if it's an oversized stork? That's normal for New York."
KA-THUNK!
The sound of…something hitting the top of the trailer could be heard even from inside the cab and both men briefly looked back before remembering there was nothing to see through back there.
"Is that normal around here?!" Bob yelled.
Crenshaw could only sputter a response as another KA-THUNK could be heard, this time clearer. Whatever was on the trailer was getting closer.
Bob gave the truck a quick swerve to try and discourage whatever was on top; it obviously didn't work as the same KA-THUNK could be heard again.
"Use the emergency call on the dash, if we don't report to HQ the bosses are gonna have our heads."
"Right, right," Crenshaw quickly scanned the control panel on the truck; the touch screen doodads OsCorp had installed in all of its trucks were beyond his understanding. As far as he was concerned, his job was to drive from point A to point B, drop off the junk and return to point A. Everything else wasn't in his job description and that included memorizing the needlessly complicated crap management decided to install to streamline productivity or whatever. He hoped he pressed the right button.
Only love is with us now,
Something warm and pure,
Find the peace within ourselves,
No need for a cure.
Evidently not as the music blared back up.
"Would you stop messing around?!" Bob yelled. "Call them up!"
"I don't know how this thing works!" Crenshaw yelled back over the music.
Both men screamed in alarm as what looked like a gigantic, dark green blade pierced through the roof of the cab narrowly missing both of them.
When the wind is low and the fire's hot,
The vulture waits to see what rots.
"SHAKE IT OFF! SHAKE IT OFF!" Crenshaw yelled, grabbing the wheel and jerking it in a panicked attempt to dislodge whatever was attacking them.
"CUT IT OUT OR WE'LL CRASH!" Bob tried to wrest control back from his passenger, barely keeping the truck from going up on the curb.
Oh how pretty,
All the scenery,
This is nature's sacrifice.
The blade retracted and they heard the mysterious assailant take off from the roof. Both men only had a moment to breathe a sigh of relief before they saw the strange bird fly straight for them. They both cried out again in panic before the strange figure swooped down once more, bringing its blade-like wings to slice through the rubber, spokes, and rims of the wheels.
When the air blows through with a brisk attack,
The reptile tail rips from its back.
With the sudden loss of balance, the truck tipped over on its left side. The two unlucky truckers gave out one last cry before the vehicle toppled over, Crenshaw landing hard against Bob and knocking the two of their heads together. The momentum of the truck ended soon after as the vehicle came to a grinding halt. The older man held on only for a moment, enough to see their flying attacker overhead before passing out from the rattle to his brain.
When the sun sets,
We will not forget,
The Red Sun over Paradise.
June was coming to a close and Peter was pretty sure he had gotten the hang of this crime-fighting business. While Queens wasn't exactly crime-free, the major action was definitely in Manhattan, so that's where he directed his attention. Night time was when the opportunistic lowlifes were most active so it was simply a case of getting there on the evening train (a simple matter of clinging to the top or back end of the subway) and patrolling around the city, looking for criminals to take down.
Of course, there were a few hiccups. One was sneaking out of the house, easier said than done as Aunt May was staying up later and later. The other was what would happen when school started back up again, he couldn't stay out all night, balance school work, and try for a good night's sleep for the next day. But he couldn't just quit for the sake of convenience, he owed Uncle Ben more than that. In any case, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it, perhaps try his patrols in the later afternoon.
This was why today was so important, to try his patrol in broad daylight and see how it goes.
There's a common theory that people rarely look above their field of vision past sixty degrees. Peter found that to be especially true in New York as the average pedestrian rarely looked up, they were too busy looking ahead or if they were feeling especially aware, were looking down to make sure they didn't step in anything. Even then, Peter wasn't exactly keen on being spotted by some tourist or the odd eagle-eyed New Yorker, so he limited his travels to leaping from one building to the next and his web-slinging to the side streets. The last thing he needed was to be hounded by the paparazzi while trying to do crime fighting.
The only problem was there was little crime to be fought at the moment.
Maybe it was the time of day, maybe it was that he was patrolling the wrong areas, maybe it was just a slow day. Over the last couple of weeks, he had taken down muggers, carjackers, robbers, purse snatchers, bike thieves, and the occasional midnight creep. Perhaps the lowlifes were taking a break, maybe he was starting to scare them off the street.
Peter knew he couldn't be that lucky.
He got up from the third-story ledge he had chosen as his perch while he thought and sighed. If he was actually going to do his web-slinging in broad daylight, then he might as well go for the gusto. Paparazzi or not, he wasn't getting anywhere with this back alley skulking; so picking himself up, he started his web-slinging out through the main streets, hopefully high up enough that he wasn't going to draw too much attention.
Detective Duane Thornton's day was off to a rotten start, besides having to investigate an utter wreck with little clues to go on; there was the constant, loud chatter from the curious onlookers that wasn't helping his headache. A side effect from last night's late-night round of drinks with the squad. He so wished that the patrolmen acting on the perimeter would disperse them, aggressively if need be. But he had to set a good precedent; otherwise, his uncle would lend him an earful about once again covering his write-ups.
Of course, today's problems all started with his uncle; he had gotten the call early in the morning to not only get out and check out the crime scene, but to be on the lookout for a special assessor or whatever who would be arriving to inspect the damage. He emphasized giving this mystery man whatever help he needed and being on his best behavior above all else.
Mornings like this made Duane wish that his uncle wasn't the police commissioner, or that the old fart would just retire.
The sound of a patrolman arguing with someone caught the detective's attention. He saw a tall, impeccably dressed man gesturing to the overturned truck while the beat cop kept trying to usher him back behind the lines. From his neatly combed-back dark hair to polished shoes, everything about the guy screamed professional. His suit looked tailored-made and was certainly from one the high-end businesses; even his highbrow glasses looked custom designed. Duane decided this must be the guy.
"You the…specialist?" Duane asked. When he nodded an affirmative Thornton gave a "get lost" look to the rookie and escorted the stranger over toward the accident.
"So, what? Are you insurance agent for Osborn?" the detective queried, the other man ignored him and walked around, looking at the truck and examining the wheels that had been cut in half.
"Personal aide? Private investigator? You know, not everyone's got the pull to get a permission slip from the commissioner," Duane was getting more and more irritated over being ignored.
"What was stolen?" the other man finally asked as he peered into the empty trailer of the truck.
"How should I know? I thought you were the one who knew," Duane growled.
"And what did the drivers have to say?" the bespectacled man was once again looking at the shredded wheels.
"They don't know either; their job was to deliver it to Hamilton. They said something about a giant bird attacking them. Probably the concussion talking. A few witnesses saw a couple vans take whatever was in there and drive off, we're still looking into that."
The unknown man continued his examination until he was seemingly satisfied and went to leave.
"You gonna tell me what this is all about?" Detective Thornton asked.
"Just be sure to make a public statement on any new developments," the other man replied. But the detective grabbed him by the arm and stopped him in his tracks.
"Now listen here, Four Eyes," he sneered. "I don't care who you are, but nobody gives me orders. Especially not stuck-up, corporate civilians who think they're above the hierarchy. But let me spell it out for you, I'm a cop and you're little people. Try this again and I don't care what pull you have with the commissioner, it's not going to stop me from nailing your ass to the wall. And I've got a whole precinct to back me up."
The other man said nothing during the schpiel, all he did was glare back at the detective. Thornton got a little closer in an attempt to intimidate him, but he didn't budge, in fact, he barely seemed to blink. He just stared at him with a look of contempt and cold fury. Thornton still remembered enough of his police training to recognize an imminent threat and though he could place exactly why, something in the back of his mind was warning him that this mysterious figure was more dangerous than he appeared.
A call coming from the man's coat pocket broke the tension and the detective let go of the other man's arm.
"Okay, get outta here, people are staring," he used the concerned looks from his fellow police officers as an excuse to break off.
The man didn't stop glaring at the detective until he had turned his back on him and only then answered his phone.
"Yes sir? No. No news or leads either. Yes, I understand. I'll contact our usual sources. We'll keep an ear out for any new developments."
Duane Thornton sighed, it was too early in the day for dealing with crime this weird and people like that. He only hoped that the day would improve.
His day would in fact not improve.
In a rundown warehouse, in a seedy neighborhood rarely visited by the police, the stolen goods were being unloaded from some stolen vans; Phineas Mason checked through the merchandise with the same aloof enthusiasm he had for his regular job.
"Alright. Schultz, your junks over there. Farley? Pick that…whatever it is in the large box, no, the other large box. The rest of you, take what you want from that pile and head out. And don't get caught. I don't need any of this circling back to me."
The assembled goon squad took what they wanted and left, leaving Mason to do an inventory of the leftover stolen goods. His attention turned to a low hum coming from outside and a second later Adrian Toomes flew through a broken skylight and landed next to Mason. His outfit was a forest green bodysuit with armored gauntlets, greaves, and boots, but the most notable feature was the wings. Matching the color of his suit, the massive, bird-like wings extended from a thick metal pack on his back. The "feathers" were razor sharp and more than just a little gaudy for Mason's tastes. But if today's haul was any indication it was certainly successful.
"I have to hand it to you, Adrian. You managed to pull together quite the operation," Mason complimented the other man who was busy looking over his wings. "What surprised me was how you managed to get so many on board with your little scheme so quickly."
"Osborn has a history of screwing people over," Toomes growled. "All I needed to do was put the word out that Osborn was going to be screwed over for a change and they came flooding in."
"Mmm," Mason was only half-listening to Toomes diatribe; he was busy looking over what was left over from the stolen merchandise. A few odds and ends, some new prototype armor, newfangled energy weapons, and a couple of things he didn't recognize. With the right amount of tinkering, he could stretch this tech out for at least half a year and more than cover the bills. Phineas Mason was nothing if not resourceful.
"So what's next?" Mason asked as he absentmindedly pulled apart some battery packs. "Going to hit Tricorp next? Maybe Williams Innovations?"
"Osborn," was the reply.
"OsCorp?" Mason gave a wry look. "Rather risky, don't you think? They'll be taking precautions after what you pulled today."
"I didn't say OsCorp, I said Osborn." And with that, Toomes launched himself out through the skyline.
At his office at OsCorp, Norman was dealing with headaches of his own. He had been hounded by calls from the police, insurance assessors, city officials, and the lowly peons from his own company ever since news of the robbery broke out. Most of this he could deal with, but it was the call he was currently engaged in that was causing his temples to throb in irritation.
"General Pollock, if you could just listen for a secon-"
"You gave me assurances, Osborn!" the voice on the other line yelled over the speaker. "You told me that there would be no risks, there would be no problems. No one would even know about the goods!"
"As I recall, it was your decision to keep things as inconspicuous as possible," Osborn cut in, his patience rapidly disappearing. "You wanted to avoid a scene by forgoing an armed presence."
"And now because of your incompetence, we have God knows what running around the city in the hands of criminals!" The general continued his tirade, not caring what the other man had said. "I'm supposed to have a meeting with the Joint Chiefs this week, what am I supposed to show them? A big fat case of nothing? That our next-generation technology can be stolen by any jackass from New York? How about a smoking crater where the Bronx used to be?!"
"General, you're overreacting," Osborn tried to put on his most even tone, possibly getting tempers back under control. "Nothing stolen has that destructive capability. And besides, you still have the flight pack."
"A useless gimmick! I'll be lucky if I can even get the Air Force on board with your little toy!"
"General, we can work through this; it's just a minor setback…"
"I'd be very careful if I were you," General Pollock said dangerously. "We don't take kindly to butterfingers. Screw something like this up again, and you can kiss every deal you have with us goodbye."
With that last threat, the general hung up and left Osborn fuming, he pressed a button on his intercom and a second later his personal assistant dutifully stepped in.
"Our contacts in the force have nothing to report," Menken looked through his notes. "Security is currently going through all personnel who had any knowledge of the delivery or its contents."
"Grill them," Osborn growled as he sat down in his chair. "Wherever the leak is, I want it plugged with extreme prejudice."
"There's also the matter of what the drivers had to say, both reported a giant bird attacking the truck. We're still looking into that."
Norman sighed and rolled his eyes. "Please. When they get back I want the both of them tested for every drug known to man; I refuse to believe that one of our shipments was personally taken down by an overgrown chicken."
No sooner had he finished his sentence when Adrian Toomes crashed through the glass windows of his executive office, snatched Osborn out from his chair, and flew off again.
Osborn was not a man who panicked easily, that was practically suicide in his line of work. But suddenly being dragged out of his top-level office window and being flown around downtown Manhattan by a maniac in a bird costume did rattle him. As much as he tried he couldn't keep the startled yells from letting loose as they weaved and dived through the buildings, coming dangerously close to brushing the sides and outcroppings before pulling back again.
"Who are you?!" Osborn yelled over the rushing wind, his courage and indignation rising. "What the hell do you want?!"
"You don't recognize me?" Toomes looked down at the figure dangling from the talons in his feet. "I guess success really does change a man."
"Toomes? So you're the vulture that's been picking away at me."
"Vulture? Yes, that works," the older man smiled. "Rather apt, I think. Call me, The Vulture."
"A decrepit-looking, unwashed scavenger. Very apt." Norman said dryly.
"They're great survivors, which is more than I can say about you," the Vulture hissed before flying up into some aerial loops and corkscrews, relishing in the panicked cries from his victim. A minute later, and satisfied that he had terrorized Osborn enough, he made his way to the roof of a nearby building. He landed and brought the industrialist down with an ignominious crash before picking him up barehanded and holding him over the side.
"Rather impressive, isn't it?" Vulture gloated. "My maglev technology not only provides me with means of flying but also increases my strength tenfold."
"If it comes attached to that tacky outfit of yours then I wouldn't call it impressive," Norman snarked, trying to project at least an image of control. "Now who helped you make those wings? Who told you about the shipment? We both know you don't have what it takes to pull off something like this, not alone."
"Arrogant to the end, did you really think no one would want to do to you what you did to them?" Vulture sneered. "This has been coming a long time and if you want to live another day you'd better amend that attitude."
"Who financed you?" Osborn pressed on. "Roxxon? Tricorp? Or did Stark flip after going MIA for so long?"
"WOULD YOU SHUT UP!" Vulture bellowed shaking his victim violently. "For once in your life stop talking! Now, if you want to live through this just listen: you will sell all of my product rights back to me, I'm thinking triple what you bought my company for. Next, you'll demonstrate the effectiveness of my designs to all of your military contacts. And finally, you will publically apologize and give me the deserved praise I'm owed so everyone will know of the genius of Adrian Toomes!"
"And why would I do any of that?" Osborn cocked an eyebrow at the demands.
Because I don't think you want to end up a smear on Wall Street." Vulture glanced down at the crowd that had started to gather below them but Osborn rolled his eyes.
"Is this supposed to be a threat? Because it's about as well-thought-out as your grand scheme. I can't pay you or raise your 'well-deserved praise' if I'm dead and thanks to your half-assed stunt this morning I might not have any more military contacts!"
"Stubborn, ignorant, self-centered…!"
"And your attempt at violence is even more laughable," Osborn continued. "Just because you summed up the courage for this half-assed burglary doesn't mean you have what it takes to end a life. So why don't you set me down and tell me who's behind this and just maybe I'll put in a good word for your trial."
Toomes didn't say anything, he simply let go of his captive and watched as he plummeted toward the street.
"Wow! Lucky I was swinging by, huh?" Spider-Man caught the screaming man with ease and continued his web-slinging now with a passenger in tow.
"What the? What are you?" the bewildered Norman Osborn shouted, surprised to find himself caught in the arm of another strangely garbed individual.
"For starters, it's 'who' are you," Spider-Man corrected him. "I'm not a 'what' level of weirdness just yet."
A second later, the wall-crawler heard a whooshing sound behind him and an old and outraged voice soon followed.
"What the? What is this?! How dare you interfere in my business!"
"Well saving lives is my business; can you really blame me if there's some overlap?" Spider-Man rhetorically asked.
"Who are you?" both Osborn and the pursuer asked.
"Nice of you both to recognize the 'who,' and to answer you both, I'm your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man!" Peter replied.
"Well listen well Spider-Man," the winged chaser snarled. "If you know what's good for you, you'll leave that cretin you're carrying behind and leave! It's unwise to get between the Vulture and his prey!"
"You're really sticking with that?" Norman called back at Toomes. "I called you that as an insult, old man!"
"And does he know vultures aren't predators?" Spider-Man asked.
The Vulture let out a low snarl and zoomed toward them, slicing the web strand Spider-Man was using and sending the two down once more.
"Oh, would you calm down?" Spider-Man said to the panicky billionaire as he shot another web line out swinging them down to the side of another building. Clinging to the side so the aerial assailant couldn't swoop down at them. "Man, I hope the next damsel in distress I rescue is made of sterner stuff."
"Would you stop messing around and do something useful!" Norman yelled. "The man means to kill me and you're joking?"
"And I hope they're a bit more appreciative," he gave Norman a disproving bop on his nose. "The next superhero might not be so eager to come your way if all you do is complain."
But while he was in the middle of bantering he had lost track of the Vulture who flew above them and used his razor-sharp wings to rake the side of the building, raining broken glass and concrete down upon the two of them.
"Okay, maybe you have a point!" Spider-Man conceded as he leaped off with Osborn to avoid the deluge of debris, within moments the chase was back on.
"How are you doing all of this?" the Vulture demanded.
"Let's just say I don't call myself Spider-Man because of aesthetic choices," Spider-Man answered. "Wall-crawling, web-slinging, it all just fit, you know?"
He dodged a swing from the metallic wings and swore he could hear the sharpness of the blades over Norman's panicked noises.
Can't take care of the flying menace while I'm taking care of the billionaire, I better make a quick stop.
Detective Duane Thornton was once more in a bad mood, though in this case it could be chalked up to hunger. He had left Police Plaza for some lunch and maybe a beer (maybe two of those) but was still dealing with the morning's headache plus the rookies on hand were giving him a new one.
"For God's sake, Mahoney, figure it out for yourself!" he yelled at the young patrolman. "I've got too much on my plate to look into every stupid tip or phony call that comes along and I certainly don't need this on my lunch hour!"
"But they said it was important," Mahoney protested. And I think it's about your case…"
"Let me save you some time, no it isn't. Christ, can't I have a moment of peace?"
Whatever moment of peace he had was interrupted as the police officer directed his attention down the street where the sounds of surprised onlookers were issuing. A second later he saw what had gotten their attention; some person dressed all in red was swinging on ropes that seemed to come from right out of his wrists while carrying a familiar person with one arm. And not far behind them was another man dressed up like a bird who was chasing after them. Detective Thornton got a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach. The red-clad figure landed on the side of the precinct building above the flagpole and Thornton could clearly see the man he was carrying Norman Osborn, looking disheveled and scared out of his wits.
"Hey! Put the man down and come down here slowly!" Thornton ordered as he drew his gun.
"Hold that thought and hold this please," the stranger tossed Osborn down to Thornton who gave a little yelp as the grown man was tossed into his arms, the two of them collapsing into a heap.
"Sorry about this," the man in the webbed costume said as he ripped the flagpole right off the side and threw it at the bird man who swerved away at the last second. The detective could only watch in confusion as the spider-themed man shot a strand of what looked like webbing at the other stranger, catching him on the leg and lifting him off. Dangling in the air like the tail on a kite.
"What? What? What?" was all Thornton could sputter. He was already dreading the paperwork that was going to be involved.
"You meddlesome fool!" Vulture shouted back to his unwanted passenger. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"
"Saved a one-percenter? Fought against a supervillain? Totally ruined the low profile I was going for? Stop me when I get to the lie." Spider-Man answered.
"You cost me my revenge! Ruined the chance to reclaim what's rightfully mine!" Toomes dived and swerved all over the place in an attempt to shake him off.
"Listen, Big Bird. Revenge really isn't worth it, not when there are better things you can devote yourself to," Spider-Man twisted and turned, trying his hardest to avoid everything around him while he dangled off the back. "That wingsuit of yours is pretty neat, ever think about marketing it?"
The Vulture gave an unearthly roar in anger at that last sentence and started diving at top speed.
"Seriously, with those sharp wings, you could make one heck of a hedge trimmer!" He grasped his web line with both hands and prayed that it wouldn't snap. Looking ahead he saw what the Vulture was diving towards, the Flatiron Building. The birdman suddenly climbed at the last the last second leaving Spider-Man to take the full impact; Peter scrambled up the line as quickly as he could but he was too late. He caught the edge of the top edge of the building straight on the chest and gave out a wheezing groan.
"Ooh, that's gonna leave a bruise," hoisting himself up, he gave himself a quick check-over, no ribs felt broken or cracked. There were probably easier ways to test his endurance but nothing like field testing for proper results, at least that's what he told himself through the aches.
His spider-sense began to tingle again and he looked up just in time to see the Vulture swoop down at him, talons bared. But it wasn't soon enough to dodge so the best he could do was grab hold and keep the metallic pincers from digging in, and soon enough he was back in the sky.
"Time to rid myself of this pest once and for all!" The Vulture snarled.
"Oh no," was all Peter could say before his opponent twisted himself midair and began scraping him against the glass and concrete sides of another skyscraper.
"Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!" Peter felt every crack, crevice, edge, and bump against his back and the back of his head. His grip began to weaken at the assault and the moment he no longer felt anything against his back except the wind he let go and tried to web swing away. Tried being the operative word as he soon crash-landed atop another roof, rolling to a painful stop against a water tower.
I hope the next flight I catch is less painful. He thought to himself, moving back to his feet unsteadily.
"Give it up, boy," Vulture taunted. "You may be able to do everything a spider can, but here in the sky the Vulture is king!" He dive-bombed him once more, wings pointed straight forward as if to impale him.
"Well then how about a little revolution?" At the last moment, Peter dodged out of the way while sticking a web straight onto Vulture's chest. Anchoring himself against the roof, he swung the old man towards the beams of the water tower. At his top speed and wings in the wrong position, Vulture couldn't maneuver out of the way or slice the web line that had yanked him over toward the water tower crossbeams. The only thing he could do was try to block his head before the crash.
And crash was what he did, in a rather spectacular manner; Spider-Man took some satisfaction in that. The sudden trip through the supports of the water tower and breakneck crash to the roof had left the old man dazed and Peter wasn't going to let that opportunity go to waste. He leaped over and did a quick scan of the villain's suit.
"Well, this looks important," he said aloud as he spotted the thick metal pack that connected to the wings. He gave the pack a hard punch and the hum from his suit died with a lone whine, the wings clattered to the ground useless. He then dropped the dazed fellow who was slipping into unconsciousness also to the ground.
"And here layeth King Vulture. His reign was short but feathery."
Duane Thornton scowled at the old man in a bird costume who was dangling upside down in front of police headquarters. The whole day had been one mess after another and he needed to take it out on someone, so he directed his temper to the closest person available.
"You could've told me that your attacker was a former associate of yours," he grumbled.
"For starters, the only associating I did with Mr. Toomes before this was when I purchased his company from him and Gregory Bestman," Osborn sniffed. "Secondly, I didn't know Toomes was behind this morning's robbery until he grabbed me out of my office and threatened to kill me."
"You could've at least had your assistant fill me in on what was stolen so we can take preventative measures!" Thornton snapped. "I don't need any more bozos like this running around my city ruining my day!"
"Assistant?" Norman queried.
"Yeah! Your assistant or assessor, whatever. The commissioner told me to look out for someone who was supposed to assess the attack. Three hundred dollar suit, glasses, dark hair, and real professional-like, I assumed he was one of yours."
"Well you obviously assumed wrong," Osborn watched as his personal limo pulled in front of the police station and Donald Menken stepped out. "You had almost everything right except for the color of my assistant's hair." Menken pointed to his orangish-red hair as if he had heard everything the two had said before he arrived.
Duane only stared. Osborn's assistant. This wasn't the same man he saw this morning, they looked like they were cut from the same cloth but they obviously weren't the same. So who was he speaking to this morning?
"But-I.."
"I'd take it up with your uncle," Osborn said as he climbed into the limo. "It looks to me like you were played, detective."
Inside, Osborn silently fumed over everything that had taken place. His equipment was stolen, his reputation with the military on edge, Toomes out for revenge and now there was the matter of his rescuer, this Spider-Man.
"We still have no proof that Toomes was financed by any of your competitors," Menken reported. "All inventory is kept under tight security until we can do a proper assessment of all personnel."
"I don't like this," Osborn said quietly. "Toomes had help and this attack came at a crucial time. Without any military contracts, the cost of the expansion is going to sink me. And then there's this…assessor. Someone's playing a game with my company and someone is going to pay."
"Retaliation will be dangerous if we're wrong," Menken noted. "Roxxon doesn't play around and Tricorp won't take anything lying down."
"All the same, they're bound to get wind of my shaky position with Pollock and will capitalize on it," Osborn replied. "So we're going to do this subtly."
Peter's back, chest, and head had mostly recovered when he got home that late afternoon. He found his aunt cooking away in the kitchen, enough food to feed a small army much less the two of them. After the day's events, he felt like he could finish at least most of it, but he had long since learned about the importance of leftovers.
"Oh, Peter," May called out to him from the kitchen as he plopped down in a living room chair. "How was your day?"
"Good, good," he called back. "Just spending the day outdoors, trying to get some fresh air, touring the neighborhoods, keep my mind off things."
"That's good, I'm glad you weren't in the city today."
"Oh?"
"Yes, I heard on the news there was some brouhaha in Midtown, something about an attempted kidnapping and a fight between two really strange people."
Well, glad I missed that," Peter sighed. "That's the kind of craziness I'd love to avoid."
And so we have our first supervillain, there's some sort of tradition with Spider-Man fighting Vulture first and I thought I'd continue it here.
But will Spider-Man's villain troubles continue? What does Mason plan to do with the stolen tech? Who else was involved in the robbery? And who is it that has an interest in Osborn's stolen goods?
More to be revealed next time!