darkest before the dawn

August 1th, 2016

2:12 AM

Aaron Davis never asked for this.

He just wanted something to stick someone up with. Just a small thing that would help him with life. Little bit of petty crime. Nothing big. Nothing that would catch the attention of those super-powered guys in devil’s horns or skulls. Just something small.

Instead, he got two men with happy-go-lucky trigger fingers that, after getting frustrated with him because No, he did not want the gun that would blast a person to a different dimension, they tried to shoot him with the gun that blasted out honest-to-god sonar waves that Aaron knew would have killed him if it hadn’t been for Cryptid of Queens to come flying out of fuckin’ nowhere and take the shot for him, covering Aaron’s body with their own.

And of course, as New York always provides, the small, tiny figure in red and blue fuckin’ survived the shot, even though Aaron had been told by the men that this was an instant-kill weapon. 

But, of course, that wasn’t the end.

The Cryptid, or Spider-Man, as J.J Jameson had delightfully put it, face planted on the ground after saving Aaron’s life and telling him not to do crime, and passed out.

And, because Aaron’s brother was a jerk who kept telling him to do the right thing, Aaron picked up the light-weight vigilante and brought him to his apartment in Brooklyn, it being only a few blocks away.

So now, he had a terrifyingly enhanced superhero in his apartment, lying unconscious on his couch where he had sat only hours ago, watching random television shows with his nephew. 

Miles would be so thrilled to meet Spider-Man.  

Jeff, not so much.

Aaron racked his brain, trying to remember everything he had heard about the superhero. If he was going to help him, then he needed to know exactly what he was dealing with.

The first reported sighting of the vigilante was reported back in late March, early April, back when the Punisher was creating chaos in New York for the second time. Didn’t really do much, just saved people from muggings and took down rapists with those very strange webs of his. Nothing really big. Then, there was the very blurry video of a bus careening toward disaster and a small figure in red and blue swinging in and stopping it. The bus was at least 14 tons. People should have died that day. But they didn’t. 

Then pictures emerged. A small, hooded figure in the same red and blue, sitting on a wall. And not just normal sitting. Sitting sideways, as if gravity didn’t apply to them. The Bugle printed them and gave the figure the moniker of ‘Spider-Man.’, but it was unsure if they were legit.

Then in June, the Rhino showed up and promptly got taken out.

NYPD claimed credit, but Aaron’s heard that it was the same person in red and blue that showed up swinging, grabbed the exoskeleton, and basically wrecked him. 

Jeff confirmed it.

“There was webbing,” Jeff scowled at his coffee, “Stronger than anything they’ve ever seen. Had to wait for it to dissolve for them to do anything.”

Aaron shrugged. “How’d they do it?”

Jeff raises his hands, completely done. “I have no idea. That exoskeleton, from what I’ve heard, couldn’t be broken. And yet, there were pieces of scrap metal littered all over the street, as if they had been torn from the suit.”

“You think they’re enhanced? A mutant?”

Jeff groaned. “Had to be. No way they would have survived otherwise. They’ve got to be as strong as that Jones lady, stronger even. Queens has a warrant out for their arrest, but I doubt that’s going to happen. Those mercs, though. There’s a bounty on their head. Someone’s bound to go after them at some point.”

“Crappy costume, though.”

Jeff raised his coffee to that. “Agreed.”

So in total, he has a vigilante that’s been out on the streets for six months, with powers to rival the strongest woman in New York, a costume crappier than the Devil’s, a resistance to injury slightly below the Hero of Harlem, and a bounty on his head almost on par with the Punisher’s, lying on his couch.

This is fine. Great. Good. Absolutely fine. 

Aaron breathed in, then out, then snatched the shitty ski-mask of the vigilante’s head.

Look.

Yeah, he knows that unmasking a known vigilante with enemies that could bash someone with a single punch is bad. Also dangerous. However, this is his shitty apartment and he makes the rules. And one of these rules is that he knows who he is dealing with, not staring at them through strange goggles.

And, holy fuck, it’s a kid.

He looks about ten, if Aaron’s being honest. Curly reddish-brown hair, pale skin with freckles. Bruises covering his cheek and peeking out of the neck of his hoodie. A deep score in his face, looking remarkably like a healed bullet wound. Deep, doe-brown eyes, staring straight at Aaron.

Gold-ringed brown eyes, open and scared.

Oh, shit.

A foot to his chest sends Aaron stumbling back, the kick very clearly not even a brunt of the kid’s power. “Shit. Kid, wait!”

The kid’s breathing is frantic and he’s trying to stand up from the couch, but he’s obviously injured and can’t do much. “Wha-wha-”

Aaron holds his hands up in front of him, palms facing outward as he slowly approaches the kid. “It’s okay, it’s alright. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The kid feels at his face. “You-you took my mask off!”

Aaron plants his hands on his hips. “You were unconscious in my apartment. I wanted to know who I was dealing with.”

“I saved your life!”

“Your point?” Aaron raises an eyebrow at the kid, who scowls at him. “What’s your name?”

“Why would I tell you?” The kid’s surly, which is understandable. However, Aaron would like to know exactly how old this kid is and why they feel the need to be a cryptid.

Aaron cracks his fingers. “Well, I’m pretty sure that you’re not eighteen, so I’m going to guess that you have a guardian or some shit. I’m also going to guess that they’ve got no clue you put on tights and run around like a mini-vigilante. You’re injured, and since you can’t go to a hospital or your guardian, you’re stuck with me.”

The kid’s silent, eyes judging Aaron with an intensity that’s on par with Rio’s.

“I’m not calling you Spidey,” Aaron adds, just to put that out there.

The kid’s voice is soft. “You can call me Frank.”

“Frank?” Aaron repeats, raising an eyebrow as ‘Frank’ nods. “That’ll work. You got any injuries that need help?”

Frank shakes his head no. “I’ve got a healing factor. I just need to sit down for a bit. That...gun kind of, broke my senses for a bit.”

Aaron gestured for the kid to sit on the couch, which Frank complied, still staring at Aaron warily. “You want some food? Cereal?” Aaron checked the fridge. “Leftover pizza?”

“I’m good.”

Aaron calls bullshit and grabs two pieces of pizza and a coke. He tosses the coke to the kid. “You want it warm or cold?”

“Cold.”

Aaron chucks the pizza to Frank on a paper plate, who catches it without fumbling. He grabs a beer out of the fridge and slumps down into the mismatched chair across from the couch. The kid’s shoveling pizza in his mouth, obviously starving. He’s small and skinny, barely five feet with gangly limbs. It’s a wonder that this kid ever stopped a bike, much less a bus.

Taking a swig, he asks Frank a question. “How old are you?”

Frank looks up, mouth full of pizza. “Seventeen.”

“Cut the bullshit, how old are you? ‘Cause you look ten, if we’re really being honest here.”

Frank swallows. His fingers twitch at his knees and he bites his lip, eyes narrowed. “I’ll be thirteen in a few days.”

Aaron takes another sip of his beer.

Shit.

Miles was eight. Jeff would never let Miles do anything like this. His parents would have never approved of this, and he had been sixteen when he had started getting in trouble. Way older than this baby-faced vigilante. Where were this kid’s parents? Why was this kid getting into trouble way above his pay grade?

Aaron gestures at Frank’s face. “That scar. You get that from this?”

Frank touched the scar that ran from his cheek to his hairline, eyes going dark. “No.”

Trauma. Great.

How do you interact with kids? Miles was bubbly, always laughing, always talking. It was easy to be around him because you just had to listen. Answer his questions, laugh at his jokes, and just generally be around him. He’s not like this kid. This kid is abrasive and full of secrets, a cloudy day compared to Miles’ ray of sunshine. He reminded Aaron of the kids he’d see on the streets, trying to act like they were stronger than they were, as if that would protect them from the world around them.

Tell a joke?

Ask about the trauma?

Ignore the trauma and focus on how in the fucking world a twelve year-old child ended up with powers most people would kill for?

And C is the correct answer.

“So..” Aaron taps his chair. “Your powers. How’d you get those?”

Frank, which Aaron knows is not that kid’s name, shrugs. “Radioactive spider. Got bit. Had a fever. Ended up with powers.”

Cool. Cool. Cool. Apparently getting bit by unknown animals can give you mutations. Cool. Cool. Cool.

“And you just decided to become a vigilante?” 

Frank smiles. “More or less.”

Aaron takes another sip of his beer. It’s that really crappy beer, the one you find at a discount in a liquor store and keep in the back of the fridge until you’re really in need of alcohol, so you dig it up and drink it, even though it tastes like literal shit.

“My friend always said that she was going to be a superhero one day,” Frank said, almost a bit wistfully, “Told me I was gonna be her sidekick.”

Frank scowls a little bit, more of a pout, and Aaron can see the kid that lives under that layer of maturity.

“Said my name was going to be Brainstorm,  ‘cause I was the one with an A in science.”

“What does your friend think now?” Aaron asked, only half-listening.

Frank’s shoulders rise. “She died.”

Aaron breathed out. And took another sip of his beer.

“What were you doing tryin’ to buy those weapons?” Frank asked suddenly, eyes intent on Aaron. 

Aaron flicks a piece of fuzz off his shirt. “None of your business.”

Frank sighs. “Okay, then how did you find them? I’ve been searchin’ for weeks and I’ve found nothing.”

“Frank, kid,” Aaron swigged back his beer, “This is way out of your league. You know that if it had been someone with a meaner streak than me out there, you would most likely be dead. Or sold to the Underground. Can’t you just, I don’t know, sit this one out?”

Frank stares at him, deadpan. “No. And if you won’t tell me, I’ll just have to go find it out on my own.”

“You do this for your friend?” Aaron asked him, gesturing at Frank, “This for them?”

Frank’s hand clenched into a fist. “No. It’s to prevent another one of her. And him.”

Aaron stays silent, so Frank pushes on. “I need to find them. They were the ones who sold Aleksei the suit. They’re selling weapons, you saw. It’s not the usual stuff, it’s like Avenger-level tech. They need to be stopped.”

Aaron rubs at his face. “Does anyone else know about you, y’know, stuff?”

“Nope.” Frank pops the p. “Just me.”

Aaron raises an eyebrow. “Not even your parents?”

“My mom has been missing since I was five and my dad’s in Rikers, so no.”

“Jesus fucking christ,” Aaron sighs. What did he do to deserve this? He did his time, 18 months. He was on parole, he was doing good. The only reason he was out there tonight was because he was so sick and tired of just-

It not being enough.

“All right,” Frank perks up as Aaron finally surrenders, “But before I say anything, you got a guardian? Like a foster parent or something?”

“My aunt,” Frank says reluctantly, hands fidgeting with his mask. He’s finished the pizza and the coke. “She doesn’t know, though.”

“Tell her,” Frank looks up sharply at Aaron, but he shakes his head. “You gotta tell her kid. It ain’t safe for you to be doing this shit all by yourself.”

Frank nods. “Okay.”

Liar. A lying liar who lies.

Aaron sighs. “They’ve been at this for a while, from what I’ve heard. Basically since the Incident. Get ahold of scraps from super-powered incidents and make ‘em into weapons. Operate out of New York., make and sell their shit.” 

Frank listens intently, soaking in the information.

“Learned about it from a guy named Turk Barrett. That’s the guy you’re looking for. He’s a crook, basically a goldmine of information. Used to work for Fisk.”

“Fisk?” Frank wrinkles his nose in confusion.

“You never heard of him?” 

Frank tilts his head, considering. “Is he that guy Daredevil put away two years ago?”

“Yeah. Guy’s in Rikers, but Turk’s out on parole. Lives in Hell’s Kitchen, you’ll find him sooner or later.”

Frank’s face scrunched up at the mention of Hell’s Kitchen. Aaron laughed. “What, you don’t like the finest part of Manhattan?”

“I usually stay out of that side,” Frank mutters. “I really don’t wanna deal with what’s over there.”

Aaron takes a swing of his beer. “But that’s where all the vigilantes live. Y’know any of them?”

Frank pouts. “No. Don’t wanna.”

“Shame. Barrett’s dealt with all of them. The Devil, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, and that dude with the glowy fist usually go to him for info. Hell, even the fuckin’ Punisher went to him for shit.”

Aaron could have sworn Frank flinched when he mentioned the Punisher, but he couldn’t confirm it. “So, he lives in the Kitchen? I just gotta go there and find him?”

Aaron raises his nearly empty bottle. “Yep. Have fun becoming a fully-fledged vigilante or some shit.”

“All right,” Frank whispers to himself, then he stands, pulling the mask over his head. “Thank you for helping me, Mr…”

“It’s Aaron, kid. And don’t worry about it. You saved my life and,” Aaron shrugs, “I’ve got a nephew. It’s nice to know that someone’s looking after this side of New York.”

Frank smiles at him, and Aaron can see the relief and determination in his face. “Okay, Mr. Aaron. Nice meeting you. Thanks for the pizza.”

Then, before Aaron could move or say something, Frank opens the window and jumps out, swinging out into the night and the warm summer air. Aaron watches him until he fades away into the distance, off to go fight crime or some shit like that.

Weird-ass kid.

He has got to get a better costume.

It only occurs to him when he’s falling asleep that night {morning} that he can’t ever tell Miles about this and rub it in Jeff’s face about how he met a superhero and therefore is the superior Davis without telling him why he met a superhero and getting a slap upside the head from his sister-in-law.

“Shit,” he whispers into the dark.

A knock on the door wakes him up from whatever sleep he managed to get that night, after dreams of being bit by goats and becoming a vigilante known as Goat-Man, {It was a really weird dream, don’t judge him}. A look at his clock tells him it’s 10 in the morning, also known as time to get your ass out of bed. 

He stumbles to the door, running a hand through his hair, eyes bleary and barely awake. The door thumps again. 

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.” He calls to the person on the other side of the door, “Hold on.”

Aaron checks through the peephole. It’s a lady, one he’s not familiar with. Groaning, he opens the door, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yes?”

“Rough morning?” A dry voice answers his question and Aaron could give less of a shit if he’s an asshole.

“Look, what do you want-” He stops, raising his head up to meet a pair of cold brown eyes and a pale white face framed by straight black hair.

Jessica Jones gave him an unfriendly look. “Aaron Davis, was it? I’ve got a few questions for you