. . .
The Oscorp gala was the kind of event that made Ethan Cain want to commit tax fraud out of spite, well…more tax fraud. Polished marble floors, champagne towers, and a live string quartet pumping out pretentious ambiance like it was oxygen.
Everyone wore suits that cost more than Ethan's monthly rent, and most of them had the smugness to match their very extensive stock-portfolios and exclusive golf club memberships.
Ethan leaned against a back wall near a fire exit, pretending to check his phone while scanning the room. His jacket was matte black and slightly too nice for someone who'd snuck in through the kitchen with a stolen staff badge. He wore black gloves, both for show and for tactile insulation against anything unpleasant—like razor-sharp metal wing feathers, while his gear was concealed nearby.
Across the vast banquet hall, Norman Osborn stood like a king surveying his court, flanked by board members and tech donors. Hair perfect. Smile fake. Laugh practiced. A man who hadn't paid for any of his success in blood or sweat—just leverage.
"Any sign of Birdman yet?" came Gwen's voice in his earpiece. She'd rigged a low-frequency mic patch into his collar pin, and was watching the live security feeds she'd discreetly tapped in the surrounding building.
"Negative," Ethan muttered, swirling the contents of his champagne flute without drinking it. "No talons. No dramatic wind entrance. He's either waiting or picking his moment."
"Or already here. Keep an eye on the upper balcony. VIPs only."
Ethan glanced up. The elevated viewing platform ringed the room like a watchtower. Velvet rope, security guards, and a handful of rich snobs sipping rarified air.
"I'll get closer," he said.
"Carefully. The last thing you want is to spook a seventy-year-old man with aerial murder gear."
Ethan moved smoothly through the crowd, weaving between tuxedos and designer gowns. He passed a holographic Oscorp showcase projecting war drones and biotech implants; publicly framed as medical marvels, but he knew better. Weaponized ambition, sugar-coated for shareholders so they don't feel bad about the dead civilians that make their +4% growth viable.
He stopped near a staircase leading up to the balcony. A security guard blocked the way, arms folded.
"Sorry. VIP access only."
Ethan smiled and nodded, patting his coat. "Left my badge in the hovercar."
He turned away, leaving behind a very confused security guard, ducked behind the staircase column, and waited.
To his left, the lights dimmed as a host took the stage. A spotlight hit Norman Osborn.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Norman began, "tonight we celebrate not only innovation, but legacy. Oscorp's commitment to the future is a promise to the world. One we intend to keep—"
CRASH.
The ceiling exploded inward with the sound of war.
Glass and steel rained down like divine judgment. A massive figure descended on shrieking metal wings, emerald armor gleaming with brutal elegance. Clawed boots crunched against a shattered table. Guests screamed and scattered as the figure straightened.
Adrian Toomes stood tall in his combat rig, wrinkly scarred face twisted in a snarl behind his respirator, it might help hide his identity but there was no masking that huge beak-like nose.
"You stole from me, Norman!" he roared, voice amplified and ragged with fury. "You buried my work—my life! And now you're going to choke on it!"
Twin turbines on his wings howled to life, gusts of wind flinging chairs and wine bottles like confetti. Osborn ducked behind a security guard who was immediately flung across the stage.
Toomes stepped forward—and Ethan moved.
He vaulted the stairs in three leaps, telekinesis subtly cushioning his joints. No one noticed in the chaos. At the top, he circled around behind the balcony stage rigging, found the emergency power box Gwen had flagged in her schematics, and yanked a breaker.
The lights stuttered, flickered—and returned with backup power. But it was enough. The audience was running. Norman was exposed. And Toomes was distracted.
Enough for Ethan to switch into his 'work clothes'
Toomes reeled, his wing turbines sputtering as a wave of psionic force slowed them down, careful not to damage the precious tech.
Ethan leapt off the balcony.
Mid-air, he focused hard. Telekinetic force surged from his core. He slammed into Toomes with a brutal kinetic push, knocking the older man backward into a reinforced column.
The wings scraped and shrieked as they folded, struggling to recalibrate. Toomes coughed, his mask cracked. He looked up with bloodshot fury.
"You—"
"Hi," Ethan said. "Big fan of your work. Stealing it now, hope that's cool."
Toomes lunged, wings flaring wide with a metallic screech. Ethan ducked under the talons, rolled, and sent a telekinetic shove into one wing strut. It bent, not broke—but Toomes snarled in pain as the weight shifted unevenly.
"Do you know what it's like?" Toomes growled, voice low. "To build something with your hands, and have it ripped away by rich little cowards with no imagination?"
"Buddy, you're describing half of New York's gig economy," Ethan said, panting. "You're not special."
The wing turbines sputtered, then reignited. Toomes took off again, tearing into the air with sheer force. His shadow raced over the marble floor, the wind surge knocking over serving carts and display drones. Guests were still scrambling out through the main hall.
Ethan launched himself after him.
He didn't fly—not yet—but he could jump. And more importantly, he could push.
A burst of telekinesis launched him onto a chandelier, which swung precariously under his weight. Toomes banked hard, blades extending from his wings, ready to slice through Ethan in one pass.
Ethan jumped again. The wing clipped his coat. The pain in his ribs told him it did more than that, though the kevlar did much to protect him.
But he landed—clumsily—on the stage next to Norman, who was still clutching a security baton like it would matter.
"Get out of here," Ethan barked.
Osborn hesitated, then ran. Ethan turned just in time to see Toomes dive.
No more talking. Just talons and rage.
Ethan focused everything into his palms and blasted upward. A telekinetic wall met Toomes mid-dive—CRACK—sending sparks flying as metal screamed under strain. Toomes flipped back, wings twitching.
"Why are you fighting me, boy?!" Toomes bellowed, hovering now with unstable grace. "It's all his fault! His fault!"
Ethan didn't answer, he didn't care much for their little dispute to be honest.
Toomes made the flight-tech Oscorp desperately needed to at least pretend they could keep up with Stark and his Iron Man armour.
Every company was scrambling to replicate it in some way, shape or form.
A decorative metal table—solid steel—lifted from behind the podium and shot forward like a missile. Toomes dodged, barely, one wing taking the brunt. It sparked. Caught.
He dropped, skidding across the floor in a trail of smoke and feathers.
Ethan followed. Hands glowing faintly with power, heart pounding, vision tunneling. He wasn't sure how many more bursts of force he had left—he was running hot. Body shaking.
Toomes tried to rise. Ethan tackled him instead, planting both hands on the wings and pushing down with telekinesis.
Metal groaned.
"You know what your real mistake was?" Ethan hissed over the whine of failing machinery.
Toomes' mouth twisted. "Daring to dream?"
"Not shutting up."
With one final shout, Ethan overloaded the wing actuators. Sparks erupted. The whole rig detonated with a controlled pop, systems fried, servos seizing.
Toomes slumped.
Defeated.
Sirens wailed outside. Police. Drones. Maybe SHIELD, though they wouldn't exactly advertise their presence.
Ethan stood slowly, chest heaving. He backed away from the unconscious figure, taking one last look at the smoldering wreck of the wing suit, and took what he took from the fiasco.
"Shame," he muttered. "Could've done something real with that."
He turned and walked out through the same kitchen entrance he'd come in, slipping through chaos as responders poured in.
. . .
Outside, he ducked into a dark alley and finally let himself collapse against a brick wall.
His ribs ached. His knees screamed. He could already feel the headache building behind his eyes—a familiar, post-burnout pulse from overusing his power.
His phone buzzed.
[Gwen]: Did you win??
[Ethan]: Barely. Toasted bird. Need ice.
[Gwen]: You also need rest. And backup next time. You're not Batman.
[Ethan]: No. Just better taste in birds.
He chuckled, then winced. Everything hurt.
But as he looked up at the sky—just a sliver of stars between skyscrapers—he felt it.
Not peace.
Not pride.
But progress.
One less loose cannon flying around New York.
One step closer to being ready.
Author's Note:
If you're enjoying the story and want to read ahead or support my work, you can check out my P@treon at [email protected]/LordCampione. But don't worry—all chapters will eventually be public. Just being here and reading means the world to me. Thank you for your time and support.