"Jessica? You just get here?"
Clint Barton, better known as Hawkeye, stepped out of his vehicle and looked toward Jessica Jones, who was currently scanning their surroundings with a practiced, cynical eye.
Phil Coulson climbed out of the passenger side. He seemed tense, though it wasn't an overwhelming agitation. He was still capable of performing his duties, but there was an unmistakable flicker of something… unusual in his eyes.
"Hmm? Barton? I assume you're here for the meteor that just streaked across the sky?" Jessica gave him a dry look, her tone nonchalant.
"I'm actually here for the fat man, Wilson Fisk. I find him highly suspicious," Clint replied with a faint smirk. In the presence of an old acquaintance, he allowed himself a rare, harmless joke.
"Please. You were never one for being straightforward. Didn't the ancestor Olongus ever knock some sense into you?" Jessica turned her attention to Coulson, offering a casual nod. "Agent. What was your name again? I think we've met."
"Hello, Ms. Jones. I've seen your file in the reports concerning Kilgrave," Coulson replied.
It was a clumsy remark. To mention the Purple Man's name so abruptly was a lapse in tact; for Jessica, that name represented a history she would rather leave buried. Hawkeye frowned. The Coulson he knew didn't make mistakes like that.
"It's fine, Barton. The guy's dead, isn't he? Bul-Kathos crushed his skull like a grape," Jessica said, her voice steady. She seemed genuinely unfazed. It was hard to say whether she had truly found peace because of her near-death experience—leaving her with nothing but a traumatized head for a time—or because of Luke Cage's somewhat clumsy, yet earnest, love. Regardless, the past no longer held its sting.
"My apologies, Ms. Jones. I wasn't thinking," Coulson said, snapping out of his daze. He squinted as if fearing Jessica might physically punch him into the nearest wall.
"Tell me what you can," Jessica said to Clint, cutting the tension. "Let's see if I can be of any use to you two."
"We're here to investigate that meteor. From the looks of the impact site, it wasn't an accident. Even NASA couldn't track its origin," Clint explained, taking over the conversation. While diplomacy wasn't his primary skill, he knew how to talk to friends.
"I heard Spider-Man was spotted around here a little while ago, but he vanished pretty quickly," Jessica added thoughtfully. She had arrived much earlier than the S.H.I.E.L.D. team and had spent her time soaking up local gossip. Now that the professionals were here, she felt she could relax. "As for Kingpin… I don't have the status to get an audience with him."
She paused, her lip curling in disdain. "The Kingpin of Crime? He's nothing but a piece of trash."
"You might be right," Clint agreed, his own voice tinged with contempt. "But politicians need 'relative stability.' More importantly, they need campaign contributions, and they rarely care if that money is soaked in filth."
Clint's arrogance was understandable. To an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D., a street-level boss like Fisk was a small fish in a large pond. Jessica, however, seemed to have forgotten the days when Bullseye had hunted her through the streets until she was ragged.
"Agent Barton, I'm heading into the building first," Coulson interrupted suddenly. "The wealthy elite inside may require our presence. Perhaps I can offer them some… assistance."
It was an abrupt departure. Jessica didn't think much of it, as she didn't know him well, but Clint watched him go with narrowing eyes.
"Coulson… I'm telling you, something is off with you." Clint's hand drifted toward his belt, where a row of throwing knives rested. Though he preferred his bow in a true fight, this was supposed to be a low-profile investigation.
"Perhaps it's just because I haven't been on a field mission in a while. My skills feel a bit rusty," Coulson replied with his trademark smile—though this time, the expression felt oily.
"Fine. Get back to work. I'm going to take another look around," Jessica said, clapping her hands to draw their attention. "If I'm gone too long, Luke might start getting lonely."
She was joking, but the happiness radiating from her face was unmistakable.
"Alright. I'll come by and visit once this is wrapped up. I hear Luke is working for Bul-Kathos now?"
"Don't wait too long. If you disturb our private time, you're liable to get a tag-team beating." Jessica waved a hand and walked away.
Clint silently watched Coulson enter the building with a strangely stiff gait. Then, his gaze shifted upward, settling on the roof of the skyscraper. A figure in a red-and-blue skin-tight suit was perched there, watching.
Spider-Man? A hero who's been active for over a month, yet we can't find a single trace of his identity? Clint thought.
He looked back at Coulson. If he remembered correctly, Coulson had claimed just a short while ago that he had found a lead on the wall-crawler.
Inside the building, however, a very different drama was unfolding.
"Fisk, you're late."
The moguls in the room had subtly excluded Wilson Fisk from their inner circle. Only Pepper Potts, representing Stark Industries, gave him a polite nod. Norman Osborn sat rigidly in his chair, focused on a tablet displaying external news feeds.
"I was delayed. What is the theme of today's gathering?" Fisk asked. His composure was startling to those who knew him.
In their last meeting, Fisk had never seemed this self-assured. Everyone in the room was "rich," but there were levels to wealth. Fisk had only recently earned his seat at this table. To the old money and corporate giants, Fisk was merely a "glove"—a tool they used to handle the messy, illegal affairs they couldn't touch themselves.
"Mr. Fisk, this is once again a charity event," Pepper said with a hint of curiosity. As Tony Stark's assistant—and the recently appointed head of Stark Industries—she was still learning the nuances of these backroom dealings. Usually, such events were attended by Obadiah Stane, but the "Iron Monger" was long gone.
"Then shall we begin? Of course, if any of you are too busy, you are free to leave. Fisk Enterprises is more than capable of handling the welfare of the impoverished on our own."
Fisk's attempt to center himself in the conversation sparked immediate irritation among the others, though they maintained their polished veneers.
"We appreciate your philanthropy, Mr. Fisk. Stark Industries is happy to provide some modest assistance," Pepper said, her tone deceptively sweet.
Perhaps it was Fisk's newfound presence that misled her. Fisk Enterprises was a known quantity, wealthy enough to be on her radar, and his commanding aura made it easy for a stranger to assume he was the one in charge of the proceedings.
"Then I thank Mr. Stark for his trust. Let the banquet begin," Fisk said with a warm, sincere smile—a smile that would make any ordinary person trust the massive man.
Happy Hogan, Tony Stark's bodyguard, leaned in and whispered to Pepper. Despite Tony's new "Cyberman" security technology, Happy hadn't lost his job; he had been reassigned to Pepper. He might not be a powerhouse, but his instincts were sharp.
"Pepper, I think we should leave," Happy whispered. Stark Industries was in a league of its own; they didn't need to follow the social rules of the lesser elite.
"I trust you, Happy. Let's go," Pepper replied. She stood up gracefully. "Gentlemen, I've just received some urgent news. I must excuse myself."
She handled the exit with perfect etiquette. "Mr. Fisk, if you have specific needs, please relay them to Stark Industries. We will do our best to provide aid and perhaps even create new job opportunities for those in need."
Without waiting for a response, she left the hall with a polite smile. Since the banquet hadn't officially started, her departure wasn't a major breach of decorum.
"I suspect we shall meet again. But next time, I hope to speak with Mr. Stark personally," Fisk murmured. Beneath his suit, his muscles tightened—an expression of sheer excitement. As a man who had pushed his body beyond human limits, Fisk felt a primal urge to challenge the Iron Man. He had achieved transcendence through agonizing discipline, and now, he was even stronger.
Fisk watched Pepper leave and remained silent. Slowly, the other high-level guests began to filter out as well, including Norman Osborn. They were annoyed by Fisk's change in attitude, but they wouldn't stoop to a public confrontation.
Only one "high-tier" guest remained: Justin Hammer. Which, in itself, suggested Hammer wasn't quite as top-tier as he believed. The rest who stayed were the second-rate players who intended to teach Fisk a lesson about the true "power of capital."
This was exactly what Fisk wanted. Controlling too many people at once was inefficient.
Though Fisk was now a Worthy—a general of the Serpent, Cul Borson—he was not the mindless "Kuurth" of legend. He was Fisk, the Breaker of Stone. Diablo, the Lord of Terror, had no interest in letting a foreign consciousness clumsily pilot a body; he wanted subordinates who were truly loyal.
Fisk was the first of the Worthy, hand-picked by the Lord of Terror himself. Diablo needed a subordinate with a mind of his own. Fisk had his own plans, though spreading terror remained his primary directive.
"Sorry to interrupt. FBI. Here are my credentials."
Just as Fisk was about to "negotiate" with the remaining guests, Phil Coulson walked into the room, flashing a badge at the guards before locking his eyes onto the Kingpin.
"Why? What happened back then?"
Spider-Man crouched on the rooftop, muttering to himself. To him, Wilson Fisk's behavior was utterly alien. He was no stranger to the Kingpin; before he had arrived in this place, he had been locked in a life-or-death struggle with the man.
In fact, he should have died.
Severely wounded by an explosion, he had been at Fisk's mercy when a piece of emergency gear from Dr. Hank Pym had whisked him away to this familiar yet terrifyingly different world.
Peter Parker pulled off his mask, revealing the tired face of a young man. He had confirmed that this world had a May Parker and a Ben Parker. But there was a problem: there was already a "Peter Parker" here! And that version of him was currently in elementary school.
He had observed the boy. Their genetics were different. Even if the younger Peter were bitten by a radioactive spider, he wouldn't be able to produce organic webbing from his wrists like this Peter could. As a researcher at heart, Peter had even "borrowed" a blood sample from his younger self to confirm the discrepancy.
This world was nothing like the one in his memories. Since deciding to continue his career as Spider-Man here, he had realized this reality was far more chaotic, complex, and dangerous.
And Fisk… he didn't understand how Fisk had become that. The man now radiated a soul-crushing dread. Fisk had always been dangerous, but this was different. Now, looking at the Kingpin made Peter feel the same way he felt when facing Thor. Or perhaps, something even more powerful.
"I never imagined Spider-Man would look like such a loser."
Hawkeye's voice drifted over the roof. He had expected the city's newest hero to be a hardened veteran, not a teenager experiencing an identity crisis.
Clint hadn't followed Coulson into the building. Instead, he had tracked the spider. Having embraced the path of the Barbarian, scaling a skyscraper was child's play for him.
"Mr. Barton?" Peter blurted out.
He was met with the edge of a hand-axe pointed directly at his nose.
"I don't recall us being on a first-name basis, Spider-Man," Clint said, his voice cold. While he was a Barbarian now, his identity as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was supposed to be classified. Even with the military breathing down S.H.I.E.L.D.'s neck, a street hero shouldn't know his name.
"Dammit… First Fisk, now Agent Barton? What is wrong with this world?!" Peter cried out in panic.
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