Hour Zero
Eyes opening quickly, his senses were sharp, which was counter to his expectations, given the blow to the head he must have suffered. Hearing something from behind him, he forced himself to his feet and sprinted forward, knowing almost immediately he was in a sewer, and jumped around a corner before he even had a chance to look, sensing that it was safe somehow. There were slight mechanical sounds coming from far down the tunnel. I should avoid them until I know where I am. Whenever one dealt with robots, it was always too late to tell whether they were friend or foe. Climbing up a ladder, he found himself grateful that it was night, and visibility for the average person was low. Whatever he was wearing at the moment, there were no advanced optics on it, but he had long since trained himself not to need technology to get around in the dark.
There was a library not far from his position and he estimated that it was most likely that he could temporarily take refuge in a bathroom or between rows of books if necessary. From the gothic architecture, he knew he was somewhere in the northeast, and he had some notion of having been there just recently, or perhaps he had never left. The door to the library was locked at night, but that presented no particular challenge after he picked a hairpin off the ground and picked it, storing the pin at his waistband in case he needed it again. As expected, there were no cameras in the library; the books were not of great value to thieves and there was no one in there at night. He walked to the first restroom he saw and confirmed there was no one watching before looking at himself in the mirror.
To say he did not recognize himself was an understatement; he fundamentally knew that he was looking at someone else, and yet, he was in control of the wearer of the colorful costume which seemed to have no purpose beyond concealing his identity. Violating that, he removed the mask to reveal a face he did not recognize before remembering he could not say what his own face looked like. Simple brain damage doesn't explain this. Someone could have drugged me... or I could have done it to myself, preventing anyone from being able to torture my identity out of me. Putting the mask back on, he found there were strange gadgets on his wrists, which seemed to be a basic propulsion system for a highly compressed fluid. The most likely explanation for wearing a mask and not carrying a lethal weapon is that this man is some kind of hero. He has some desire to be able to fight his enemies and put them down without killing them.
Walking out of the library's restroom, he gathered that based on the arachnid insignia on his chest, the compressed fluid was most likely adhesive, fitting with the spider theme of the black webbing that covered the mostly red top of the two-part costume. It was definitely designed on a budget. In any era with kevlar and plastics, I can only think that this man is operating on something less than a middle class income. He passed under a brass sign reading 'Public Records', finding the preserved newspapers right where he expected them.
"Spider-Man," he muttered to himself after seeing a picture on the front page, photo credits to one Peter Parker. It was an adequate name, he thought, though he wondered what the point of the hyphen was; it was like the man saw himself as a hybrid rather than something new. It was concerning as he read the article, which seemed to focus on property damage, but there was no loss of life that could be directly attributed to the masked figure. Reading the editorial, the decisions of the writer were more or less explained. This Jameson must have an ax to grind against vigilantism. Grabbing a different paper from the same day, there was no picture, probably because it was hard to be right there on the scene and get a photo of an action shot, but the writer seemed to be allowed to give a more objective account.
From the age of the paper, it was a relatively recent account of a battle against a 'Lizard', there was no real name, no other description, but from the fact that the police were having a hard time dealing with it, he gathered that it was a monster. Peter Parker- does he sell pictures to any of these other papers... he could be a regular employee rather than a freelancer. It seemed that the Daily Bugle was the most popular and probably paid the best, what with the editor's obsession with Spider-Man, which he gathered by perusing some of the other headlines. Every time the masked hero took on some other threat who was wanted by the police, the editor speculated that they were working together, and every time it was some unknown, the editor assumed the enemy was actually a hero dealing with the menace that the city's defender represented. Anyone working for this Jameson charlatan must be an enemy of Spider-Man. They're helping him sell this paper and put out a deliberately false narrative about this man who has never attacked the police or any regular citizen. By contrast, he seems to have rescued hundreds of people from this madman who planted bombs all over the city, according to this paper which seems to consistently stick to the facts.
His thoughts turned to his more immediate concerns once he had sorted out his initial questions. It seemed his head was healing; he was some kind of mutant or genetic anomaly- even though his sense of his identity reminded him that whoever he was, he would not be caught dead in a form-fitting, colorful outfit that was not armored in any way. Whatever he could say for Spider-Man, he knew he had a different policy on being equipped for any circumstance.
As long as I wear this costume, people will recognize me as Spider-Man. Is that what I want, though? It entered his mind that he still had no idea who he was; he was not carrying any form of identification except his own face, and he could not afford to just show it to some random person to ascertain his identity. Whether or not the real owner of the body came back to inhabit it once more, it seemed like there would be no positive result. If, however, I were to simply wear normal clothes, then I could walk around certain parts of the city once the sun rises and see if anyone recognizes me. Failing that, I can make a fake wanted poster, but that would attract too much attention to the real identity. No matter who he actually is, he should be as quiet as possible. Even if no connection between him and a masked hero were to exist, if he is in the public eye enough, the wrong types of people would start to notice his absences.
When he looked out of the library, it seemed there was no one looking for him any longer, but he would have to stay on the lookout himself. There were a few pictures where I was climbing walls. Is that actually possible? How do my fingers even support my weight? Suspending his disbelief for a moment, he put a hand against a wall and put weight on it, propelling himself upward with surprising ease. Even his feet were sticking through the boots of his costume. How is this possible- is the entire costume covered in some reusable adhesive? Practically without even thinking about it, he was climbing the wall. This is a convenient method of travel for certain circumstances, but ultimately too time-consuming and it leaves me exposed. Even an average shot with a pistol could pick me off the side of a building. It's beyond me why this man wanted his costume to be so colorful.
While it was still dark out, he had an idea to repurpose some of the gear from his enemies if at all possible. If Spider-Man had gone up against people with explosives, he knew how to calibrate them so that they would knock people out with a concussive force that was ultimately not fatal. What he really wanted, however, was something that he could use to get around quickly. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop, he followed up on a clue that he had pieced together from reading a few different newspapers. Some of this man's enemies are lone wolves, but a suspicious amount of them have something to do with Oscorp. Either they were once employees there, or they had a personal vendetta against someone there. Does Spider-Man work for that company? Does he know someone who does?
It was the kind of question he was sure Jameson wanted investigated, but it seemed doubtful that had ever materialized. He saw the logo on the building from a distance, and there was something bizarre about being in his position, and it had nothing to do with being on a rooftop himself; he was actually quite comfortable there. Out of everything in his current setting, the cool wind on the top of the building and the solitude of being up there was probably the least disconcerting. I know I never had acrophobia.
Crossing the distance between himself and the Oscorp building was a matter of running and jumping between buildings, which he found he was able to do with ease. True to the symbolism with the arthropod, it was as if his body was incredibly light and easily maneuvered in the air. Though he was tired and out of his element, he did not exactly have a place to sleep, and he could go without for a few hours without any lasting effect. I need to know more about what is going on here. Even in silk sheets, I would not be able to sleep without getting to the bottom of this.
Crawling up the side of the building, he found that his hands could even stick to glass, and they came off as easily as they went on, which continued to puzzle him. There must be some glue residue getting left behind. The substance is hard for only a moment, and then its cohesion breaks. It could have a low melting point.
He knew there was going to be a security system throughout the building, which was why he found an open window and crawled in behind the current occupant, moving silently and putting him in a sleeper's hold from behind. It was an older man, probably one with fading hearing, and he did not seem to belong to the security personnel. If he's an employee here, he should have something he can scan... there it is. Cards are so much easier than retinal scans. Though he had no memories of ever setting up a security system himself, he was sure he would only use the retinas of select people; the average employee would not ever interact with those scanners. Accessing the computer with a thumbprint, he looked through the file system before realizing that nothing in there was older than a few months, and the old man was a lifetime employee, based on the old calendar still hanging on the office. They created an alternate login profile to trick anyone trying to force the issue. The real login would be in his head, but I'm willing to bet he uses the same passwords for- there it is.
Getting into the older man's unlocked phone and turning off the input mask on a password input field, he guessed that with the username already in the system and it was easy enough from there. It was not as if older people did not take security seriously, or that the organization did not have good protocols in place; it was that no one seriously expected some kind of genetic freakshow to sneak in through the window on a smoking break and start going through files.
To say the least, there was a lot of technology for him to peruse, and he was quite certain that the business was involved with various criminals. Who is Wilson Fisk? It seems Oscorp makes regular protection payments to his enterprise. That much is standard for a racket, but why does he need a freeze ray? Somehow that seems familiar. Not seeing a camera anywhere in the room, he guessed that senior employees were allowed a degree of privacy, though for him it meant he could blame the attack on someone else. Making up a name at random, he typed it into the keyboard several times after memorizing a handful of details. He stole the man's suit as well as a keycard that lacked a picture of his face.
Going outside, he changed his mind. He no longer wanted to be recognized, not with or without the mask, since he did not know any of Spider-Man's friends and would not be able to masquerade as his other identity. I can make a few temporary changes to my look and no one would know the difference. Putting on the suit as soon as he got to the ground, he found an all-night barbershop with Chinese lettering on the sign and went in after taking off the mask and gloves.
"修剪一下就行了。两边剪短些，但后面不要剪得太多|"
The man working the shop was only too happy to cut his hair with a hot iron bar, a strange, if perfectly functional way of cutting hair. After his polite greeting and believable excuse that he was not carrying cash, the barber allowed him to open up a tab, and for what it was worth he intended to pay it at some point. The resulting look was shorter than he thought it would be, but he supposed the young man, whatever his actual name was, had his hair too long in the first place. He also intended to pick up something to cover his face at some point, but really what he needed to make himself unrecognizable was an alien expression. Adopting a 'mean mug' in the mirror, he left as soon as the hair cut was concluded, stepping out into the alleyway to be accosted by two triad members almost immediately. He could understand what they were saying perfectly, but he could hardly care about it; he grabbed the nunchaku of one before they could build any momentum and knocked the other out with single punch. The opportunity was too perfect to ignore; he stole the sunglasses off one and a knife off the other, giving him something to pad his jacket. Though he was strong, he felt lighter and thinner than he was used to being, and as long as he dressed like a normal human, it would be a challenge to intimidate hardened criminals.
"Fisk Enterprises," he muttered to himself, seeing the building not far from Oscorp; neither was far from the park, where he could reasonably guess that some underhanded deals went on. He had one of his own to propose, and it did not take long for him to find a tough-looking gentleman on the shorter side with a company card. From the callouses on his knuckles, there was no way he was not collecting payments.
"Ya want somethin'?"
"You could say that. Depends on what you've got." He flashed the stolen badge. "I know my way around certain buildings."
"Information? Not really your guy for that. I'd have to go to another floor, you know how it is."
"You can buy in for thirty; wouldn't bother me."
"Damn straight I can buy in for thirty. Wouldn't believe how many of you little shits we get think they knows somethin' and start talkin' millions." He shook his head. "They really tink we ain't got hackers workin' for us." He flipped a cardstock note in his direction and it was caught with ease. Out of politeness, he did not so much as take a look.
"Oscorp is aware that their deals with Fisk Enterprises are about to come to light."
The tough guy did a double take.
"They assured us-"
"Yes?"
"Not three hours ago, we gets a call from them, an' they assured us that there wasn't no chance anyone- damn smokescreen. Didn't want us to see it comin'. Hasn't even been whispers in the papers. Even the ones we don' own."
"It was some anonymous little creep. They think he could have had something person on an insider, but at the present they don't know the exact nature of the leak."
"Spider-Man?"
He made an expression.
"Likes to claim credit. I can't think of any other reason he'd go around in a bright red suit all the time. Almost all the time, he operates in broad daylight. If it's him, there's something up with him."
"Yer right. He's not the only creep in the world; not even in the damn city. Ever run into Daredevil?"
"I take it I'm lucky if I haven't?" He looked around. "If you ever need to know what I've heard about him, that'll be another buy in."
"Eh, don't bother. Fisk deals with that sort of thing all the time. We've got the resources on him."
"A pleasure doing business, then," he said. "Call me Malone."
"In this line of work, I'm Hammerhead."
He could not have said where he got the idea for the codename, but he felt like he remembered it rather than coming up with it on the spot. Is that my real identity?
It occurred to him that he was, thus far, an excellent criminal. He knew precisely what to do for a quick buck, and he knew where to go with it when someone gave him a promissory note for thirty thousand, and he also knew that it was a better idea to trade it to someone else first if he wanted clean cash. There was a kid looking for drugs in the park and he said he would take twenty for the note, which was as good as Fisk's word, and the kid actually looked afraid. Barely out of high-school, if that. I'm probably intimidating him with my general seriousness and expression.
Even with as little as he knew about himself, he knew that he had different 'modes', and there were advantages to varying his levels of active and passive intimidation. In this case, however, he could not rule out the chance that the rich kid had only been intimidated by the reality of the situation being presented to him. He still took the token, though.
Malone, as he was starting to call himself, could not help but wonder if his true identity was starting to show through. Had he been a criminal before coming to the body of Spider-Man? Was he going to remember more about himself? When he did, would it change him?
On his way out of the park, he saw a young woman being harassed by a handful of gang types. Showing them the knife in his jacket, he asked if they wanted to become a statistic. Whether he scared them off, or they were not really violent types, the trick worked and they walked off.
"They're not triads," he muttered. "Could just be some local group."
"Um... are you some kind of security guy?" the woman asked. "Don't tell me you're just a different type of criminal."
"We are whatever we choose to be," he said after thinking about it for a moment. "It's what you do that defines you." He looked away a moment as she looked confused, but ultimately disregarded his remarks. "Do you live around here?"
"I don't know if I should tell you, sorry... I actually have to take a train."
Perhaps he did not exactly sympathize, but he realized what was going on. It was convenient for her that some guy took care of other guys who were cutting off her escape, but he might well be another creep trying to earn her trust, even if he happened upon an opportunity. Really, if she trusted some young man enough to have him walk her home, it would have been someone she met under different circumstances. At the same time, it was something of a ray of hope if he had some lingering expectation that people would trust him.
"I'll deal with it if you get into trouble the next time I see you, then," he said, walking off. She didn't just decide to take a shortcut through the park after midnight for no reason. I don't know what she's doing out here, but she'll be back.
He was not thirty paces away before she turned around and called out to him.
"Hey," she said as soon as he approached again. "I know I shouldn't be doing this, and I know this isn't a good reason, but you look like a guy from work... sort of. Like, if he were secretly way tougher than he actually is, but then there's no way he'd be going in and doing the same thing every day."
"Do you want me to walk you home?"
She only smiled and started off. He smiled back and followed. They talked on the way to the subway about work and their relationships; he found he was rather knowledgeable about business and even better at making up fake people. On the train itself, they were silent.
"You know, I can't help but think that even after all this, you might really be a dangerous guy," the young woman said after they got off the train. "I didn't even ask what your name was."
"Call me Matches," he said, the first name coming to him as easily as the last. "Matches Malone. I'm sure it sounds unusual, but..."
"No, it's funny, actually. There are a lot of people at the office with alliterative names. My boss actually has three names that all start with J."
"What does that make you?"
"Betty Brant."
He responded with a slight smile. It was not exactly an alliteration if her real name were Elizabeth, but he supposed she could be an exception and actually be named 'Betty' from birth, or that could just be the name she knew all her life. At some point, young men had a tendency to start going by their birth names, even if they had grown up with a truncation, but it was not the same with young women, at least not always.
"Well, in my line of work, it's not always the same people, but if I ever run into some names like that, I'll be sure to let you know."
They were out on the street again, but far from where they were. It was late, but it would still be hours before the sun rose. Having heard about her work, Malone knew that the young woman worked for a newspaper, and if she said that a lot of people there seemed to have mnemonic devices for names...
"You wouldn't happen to work for the Bugle, do you?" he asked.
"Ugh. It's a mixed bag. I hope you read more than just the editorials. Ben is the best crime journalist out there, and Peter always has the best pictures in the business. I don't know how he does it." She sighed. "Really, I don't even think Jameson is that bad; it's just that Spider-Man gets to him."
"What do you think of Spider-Man?"
They were at her door and it had not opened yet.
"He's a dangerous man. There are worse things, though."