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It’s been raining all day, and the constant patter is both soothing and distracting as Wade tries to focus on the laptop he’s hunched over. Outside, the wind blows sheets of water against Manhattan’s towers, a grey haze blocking out most of the city from his view.
He’s reviewing blueprints, prepping for some mission he cares nothing about—but it’s something to do, and it pays well enough. He leans back with a sigh. A smash and grab of highly classified data, five stories underground, surrounded by what he had to admit was an impressive amount of guards.
Shit, he might even die once or twice.
He stands, pulling on a jacket and baseball cap. Maybe a vanilla frappe would lighten his mood.
Outside, taxis splash water on his pants, and everyone is in a hurry. He looks out over a sea of huddled black umbrellas, heads down as they rush to where they’re going.
He angles across the sidewalk to Starbucks, gaze catching on a bright colour in the crowd. It’s there, then gone, but it makes him smile. A classic yellow rain jacket, in the middle of moody Manhattan.
His frappe is delicious as always, and outside, the rain has eased; the sky lightening with hints of blue pushing through low clouds.
The trees in the park are heavy with water, dripping as he walks underneath them. Wade takes a slow pull from his drink, watching the park wake back up, and that’s when he sees it again—that flash of yellow, cutting through the grey.
A skateboard hums over wet pavement, and the guy riding it is all long lines and careless grace. The hood of his bright jacket is pushed back, and his soft brown hair keeps falling into his face. There’s a camera hanging from his neck, one hand steadying it as he weaves around puddles.
The board slows, one foot dropping to the pavement as he turns to study thin bands of golden sunlight catching on glass and steel, the skyline half-obscured by mist. His shutter clicks once, twice, and he lowers it with a quick smile at the screen, then a glance over at Wade.
His eyes narrow, almost like he recognizes him and a quiet alert dings in the back of Wade’s mind.
The guy opens his mouth to say something—
A sudden crash splits the air, and they both turn to see a thick column of smoke rising between the rain-soaked towers.
“Shit,” the guy breathes.
He glances back at Wade, and then his hand rises to the back of his collar, tugging a familiar red hood up and over his face in one smooth motion. With a small, apologetic shrug, he pulls his camera free and tosses it over.
“Hey, Wade,” he says casually, “take care of this for me, would you?”
And then he’s moving—a web shooting out to lift him up and away, a yellow blur toward the explosion.
Wade just stands there, brain trying to catch up.
“Spidey?”