The night air in Gotham carried a breeze that smelled of rotten salted fish mixed with cheap gasoline.
That was just how harbor cities were.
They smelled awful.
Leon Graves crouched atop a rusty crane at the docks in Gotham’s South District, tugging up the mask he had cut from an old T-shirt.
The thing’s breathability was questionable, and the hot air from his own breathing kept fogging up his face.
He would have to figure out how to cut a breathing hole in the mask later, but he could not make it too big, or his face would show.
A dilemma.
Being poor was tough.
At least other unlucky Spider-Men were not undocumented immigrants.
At least they had Aunt May.
Could Bruce Wayne change his name to May?
Leon had wanted a relative for a long time.
Not for the wealth of Wayne Enterprises.
Absolutely not.
Leon stared down at the edge of the docks below.
Several homeless people had been tied up, their hands and feet bound behind their backs, stacked behind a shipping container like discount turkeys at a supermarket.
A group of burly men in black suits had formed a circle.
Their leader, a man with a scar running from his brow to his chin, was ordering his subordinates to throw the people into the sea.
One of the homeless men, gray-haired and thin as a bundle of firewood, did not even struggle when he was lifted up.
He seemed long used to being treated like trash.
Leon counted silently.
Six gunmen, one leader, two submachine guns, and four pistols.
That was enough firepower to turn a high school student in pajamas into a sieve twice over, with ammunition to spare.
But against Spider-Man, it was still a little lacking.
Leon took a deep breath and leaped down from the crane.
Midair, he raised his hand and fired a web.
The strand drew a crooked arc through the air, barely catching the submachine gun in one thug’s hand.
With a hard tug, the gun flew from the thug’s grip, clattered across the concrete floor, then slid into the gap between the dock and the ship.
Splash.
It sank.
“Hey!”
Leon landed on a shipping container, crouched low, and waved at the people below.
“Good evening. That thing goes off easily, so it’s dangerous for children to hold. See? It fell into the sea. I’m helping you, really. The fish will thank you. They’ve been iron-deficient lately.”
The thugs all looked up at the same time.
Scarface slowly turned around.
Under the dim dock lights, the scar on his face looked like a drunken centipede crawling across his skin.
A chatterbox.
Red-and-blue color scheme.
Not Batman.
“Spider-Man?”
“That’s me, your friendly neighborhood hero.” Leon stood up and brushed the dust off his pajamas.
“By the way, were those suits issued to you, or did you buy them yourselves? If they were issued, I suggest talking to your boss. That fit, that cut—it’s clearly clearance stock.”
Scarface did not laugh.
He stared at Leon for two seconds, then lifted his chin.
“Kill him.”
Every gun barrel rose at once.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait—”
Leon raised both hands over his head, his tone sincere enough to sell them a credit card installment plan.
“Everyone, calm down. Violence doesn’t solve problems. Look at you, instead of going home to sleep in the middle of the night, you’re standing in the sea breeze throwing homeless people around. What for? The homeless won’t affect your KPI. Why don’t we sit down, talk this out, maybe grab a cup of coffee—”
The answer he received was a storm of gunfire.
The whistle of bullets cutting through the air made the back of Leon’s head tingle.
He pushed off with his toes, sprang up from the container, and flipped through the air.
Bullets struck the sheet metal, sending sparks flying everywhere.
“My clothes!”
Leon landed on another container, looked down at the two new bullet holes in his pajamas, and felt his heart break.
“This is the only set I have! You can’t buy this kind of fabric in Gotham, you know! I sewed it myself from old curtains! Curtains! You shot through my curtains!”
He twisted sideways to dodge another spray of bullets, fired a web toward the crane beam overhead, and swung away.
The wind rushed past his ears, and he continued his monologue as he swung.
“Also, who taught you how to shoot? You fired that many rounds and didn’t hit me once. Are bullets free? Oh, right, you’re a gang. I guess bullets really are free for you. Never mind, then. But your physics teacher is going to cry. Did the gym teacher cover your ballistics class?”
He swung above another container, let go, landed, and crouched steadily.
The movement was smooth and fluid.
Scarface raised his hand, and the gunfire stopped.
He stared at Leon, his eyes narrowing.
The scar on his face compressed into a twisted line as he squinted.
“You talk a lot.”
“Thanks, I’ve practiced.”
Leon stood up and brushed the dust from his knees.
“If you want to learn, I can open a class. First lesson’s free. I’ll teach you how to keep your speaking speed up while getting hit. Core strength is very important, so I suggest starting with planks. Although, looking at you, I doubt you’d last ten seconds.”
Scarface pulled another gun from his waist.
This one was a full size larger than the previous weapons, its muzzle gleaming coldly under the dock lights.
Leon took one look, and his brain automatically calculated the result.
Anti-materiel grade.
Designed for armored vehicles.
If it hit him, the result would probably be a red-and-blue abstract painting.
“I don’t have time to waste words on you.”
Scarface raised the muzzle.
Leon did not give him the chance to pull the trigger.
He flicked his right hand, firing a web at a steel drum on the ground filled with waste engine oil.
The strand wrapped around the lid, and Leon gave it a sharp tug, using the momentum of his swing.
The drum rolled out with a bang like a giant bowling ball, crashing into the group of thugs holding their guns.
“Ow—”
“Motherf—”
Three men were knocked over like bowling pins, and the remaining few were splashed with black oil, slipping and collapsing into a tangled heap.
Their poses varied, but they all shared one common feature: none of them could stand up.
Leon jumped into the pile, grabbed one thug by the arm, and flung him to the side.
The man’s head accurately collided with a hanging unloading hook nearby.
Thud.
Leon sucked in a breath.
He might have used too much force.
“That was your own fault, not mine. You can’t use your head like that. Remember to take calcium supplements later.”
The remaining two thugs scrambled up from the ground, looked at each other, and ran for their lives.
They fled in a panic.
One of them even lost a shoe and disappeared behind the containers while hopping on one foot.
Leon watched them go, filled with emotion.
“They run so fast. Shame they’re not in the Olympics. Gotham Track and Field Team, Gang Division. I should ask them to film a public service announcement later. Theme: ‘The Joy of Exercise.'”
Bang.
A bullet flew past his ear, bringing a stinging gust of wind with it.
Scarface.
He held that oversized gun, the scar on his face twisted into an S-shape from anger.
He did not say anything.
He simply pulled the trigger a second time.
Good heavens.
A silent villain to match silent Batman.
Truly dark and gritty.
Leon, dressed in red and blue, rolled to the side, and the bullet blasted a crater into the ground.
Concrete debris sprayed across his face.
“You brat! Didn’t your family teach you not to meddle in other people’s business?!”
Scarface roared while firing.
Leon sprang up from the ground and slid behind a container for cover.
Bullets hammered the metal sheet, making his ears ring.
He covered his ears and shouted back.
“They did! They taught me to help people! Especially uncles like you who lost their way on the path of crime! Also, can you keep it down for a second? My ears are ringing!”
He scanned his surroundings.
A crowbar lay on the ground, probably dropped by one of the thugs earlier.
He snatched it up, lowered his body, and quickly circled around the other side of the container.
Scarface was still pouring fire at the previous container, completely unaware that Leon had already slipped to his flank.
Leon stood up and swung the crowbar before throwing it.
The crowbar flipped several times through the air and wedged itself perfectly into the gear gap of the crane above Scarface’s head.
Creeeak.
A teeth-grinding sound of metal scraping against metal rang out.
The gears jammed, the crane arm’s locking mechanism failed, and the massive steel boom began to slide down slowly.
“Look up, uncle!”
Scarface looked up, his pupils shrinking.
He threw himself to the side in a panic, and the crane arm smashed into the ground, brushing past the soles of his shoes.
Boom.
The concrete floor cracked outward in a spiderweb pattern.
Leon was just about to rush forward and restrain him—web the wrists, knee to the back, standard suppression move—when suddenly, every hair on his body stood on end.
It was not Spider-Sense.
He had not unlocked that amazing passive skill yet.
This was a chill crawling up from the base of his spine, as if something bigger, darker, and far less reasonable was watching him.
From the corner of his eye, he glanced toward the top of the distant Gotham Bridge.
A black shadow stood at the highest point of the bridge tower, its cape whipped violently by the night wind.
Motionless.
Like a stone statue.
Those eyes—although Leon could not see them clearly from such a distance, he just knew they were staring at him.
Batman.
His fellow vigilante had seen it.
He had seen a minor in pajamas beat six adults half to death at the docks, with one of them nearly crushed by a crane arm.
He would understand.
After all, he was Batman.