Spider-Man: Black and Blue (AU) Chapter 32: The Enforcers

[Third Person's PoV] 


Damon crouched low on the edge of the tall tower, perched like a gargoyle watching over the city. His lenses brightened with a faint glow, eyes pulsing an eerie blue as his telescopic vision kicked in, sharpening every detail in his line of sight.


From his vantage point, the city below became a canvas of intricate motion. He zoomed in on the street, tracking the spin of a wheel as it rolled along the asphalt, the faint shuffle of pedestrians brushing past one another, even the subtle shape of lips moving mid-conversation. He could almost make out the words if he wanted to. But Damon didn’t linger. His focus wasn’t on idle chatter.


Pushing off in one smooth motion, he leapt across the gap between rooftops. His gaze swept the streets again, surveying for irregularities, until something at the edge of his vision made his muscles tighten.


Behind the local bank, half-concealed in the alley’s shadows, three men were busy at work. A large armored truck belonging to the bank sat with its rear doors open wide, its insides brimming with bags stuffed full of cash. The men weren’t trying to steal the truck itself; instead, they were unloading it, tossing the heavy bags into the back of their own black van.


Damon’s lips curved into a grin beneath his mask. “Gotcha,” he muttered under his breath before firing a webline. The strand stretched taut, and he swung into motion, heading toward the scene like a hawk diving on its prey.


Down below, the thieves bickered as they worked. “Montana, why are we even doing this?” grumbled Ox, the largest of the group, his voice carrying the frustration of someone more brawn than brain. He hefted a bag into the van with a grunt. “Why not just take the whole truck and drive off with the money?”


“Because the truck is too easy to spot, you dolt,” Montana snapped back, his southern accent thick and sharp. His revolver rested in its holster, the man too confident to even look worried. “You think the cops ain’t gonna track an armored bank truck? Van’s more inconspicuous, easier to slip through traffic without raising suspicion.”


Ox frowned, scratching his head as if the word itself gave him a headache. He turned to the third man, a wiry fellow with slicked hair. “What does inco… inconpiculos mean?”


Fancy Dan pinched the bridge of his nose and opened his mouth to correct him—only for a different voice to beat him to it.


“Inconspicuous means ‘not easily noticeable.’ You know, something that doesn’t stand out. Kinda like what you guys are failing miserably at right now.”


All three spun around, heads snapping toward the voice. Their eyes widened when they spotted the white-and-blue figure clinging halfway down the brick wall. 


“It’s the darn spider!” Montana shouted, hand flying to his revolver.


“Howdy y’all~,” Damon called, mimicking the man’s accent with exaggerated flair. His spidey-sense blared in the back of his skull, and instinct screamed at him. He kicked off the wall just as Montana squeezed the trigger. Bullets zipped through the space he had occupied a fraction of a second before.


Mid-air, Damon fired a webline, snapping it at Montana’s gun. “And that’s enough cowboy cosplay for you—”


But before he could yank it away, the line went taut in the wrong direction. Ox’s massive hand had clamped down on it. With one mighty heave, he pulled Damon out of the air like reeling in a fish.


“Whoa!” Damon yelped, caught off guard as he rocketed toward the brute. Thinking fast, he planted a palm on Ox’s fist mid-pull, using the man’s own strength to vault himself overhead. He twisted into a spinning flip before landing neatly in a crouch atop the bank truck.


He activated his X-ray vision, scanning the man in a blink. What he saw made his brows furrow—muscle fibers stacked thick like steel cables, denser than anything human. “Holy hell. Were you fed protein shakes instead of baby formula? What’s up with your strength?” He ducked again as Montana’s gunfire chewed through the truck beneath him.


Springing away, Damon fired rapid web-shots in retaliation, each blast hitting Fancy Dan like a series of hard punches. “Catch, Dirty Dan!” he hollered, still mocking Montana’s drawl.


Dan staggered back, clutching his ribs and face as if he’d been worked over by a heavyweight boxer. “The name is Fancy Dan!” he shouted, indignant even through the pain.


Damon froze mid-motion, tilting his head. “Wait… hold up. Your actual name is Fancy Dan? You’re serious?” He jabbed a finger toward Montana, who was still glaring with the revolver. “I was just making a SpongeBob reference because he’s wearing a cowboy hat! You can’t expect me to—”


Before he could finish, Ox’s massive shadow loomed over him. The giant wrapped him in two meaty hands, hoisting him into the air with terrifying ease. In one motion, he slammed Damon down onto the concrete so hard the ground cracked beneath the impact.


The wind exploded out of Damon’s chest. His vision wavered, spots of light flickering. “If you really wanna pin me down,” he wheezed, coughing as he tried to catch his breath, “at least take me out to dinner first.”


Fancy Dan lunged first as he whipped out a knife and came slashing down. At the same moment, Montana opened fire, bullets chewing into the ground where Damon lay sprawled.


But Damon wasn’t staying still. He twisted his head aside, feeling the heat of a bullet graze past his cheek. His hand shot up, seizing Ox’s massive finger and bending it in the wrong direction with a sickening crack.


“AHHH!” Ox bellowed, clutching his mangled hand. Damon swept his legs out from under him, the giant hitting the pavement like a collapsing tree.


Fancy Dan tried to capitalize, rushing in with his knife. Damon caught his wrist, wrenched it backward until the blade clattered free, and followed up with a brutal elbow to the nose. Bone crunched audibly. Dan reeled, screaming, only for Damon to snarl—still mocking Montana’s drawl—


“I’m the real Dirty Dan!”


He grabbed Dan by the back of the head, flipped him overhead, and slammed him spine-first into the concrete. Before the thug could even curse, Damon fired twin web-shots, pinning all four limbs to the ground like a grotesque marionette nailed in place.


“Stay,” Damon muttered, pivoting just in time to dodge another bullet. The slug sparked against the truck.


Montana cursed, trying to reload, but Damon’s webline snagged his wrist. With a hard yank, he dragged the man toward him, snatched the cowboy hat from his head, and plopped it onto his own mask. “Well, howdy partner.”


Then—CRACK! Damon smashed the butt of Montana’s revolver across his mouth. Teeth scattered across the pavement, along with Montana’s consciousness. He crumpled to the floor, out cold.


Damon’s spider-sense flared again, and he whipped around—Ox’s massive fist barreled toward him. Damon backflipped away, landing nimbly atop the gang’s black van.


“Yee-haw!!” Damon hollered, spinning his lasso of webbing with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Lookie here, mama, I wrangled me a big ol’ Ox!”


His web stuck hard to the brute’s chest. Damon yanked with all his might, slamming Ox face-first into the side of the van. BANG! The metal caved in, leaving a massive dent. Ox staggered back, groaning, his face bloodied.


“Durable fella, ain’t ya?” Damon quipped, already darting forward. He unleashed a flurry of rapid jabs and hooks, his movements like a prizefighter, bobbing and weaving around Ox’s desperate swings.


A well-aimed web covered Ox’s face completely, blinding him. Damon kept hammering with punches, each blow snapping the man’s head from side to side until red blotches seeped through the webbing. Finally, Damon kicked his knee sideways with a sharp CRACK, forcing the brute to kneel.


“Nighty-night,” Damon muttered, before backhanding him with a  fist. The impact launched Ox backward, his massive frame smashing against the van so hard the vehicle tilted onto two wheels before slamming back down with a squeal of suspension.


Ox sagged against the dented metal, his head bowed, webbing clinging tight. Damon’s lenses narrowed as he scanned his vitals—heart rate plummeting, body slack. The big man was out cold.


Silence settled for a beat. Damon adjusted the cowboy hat on his head, breathing steady again, before his gaze drifted back to the bank truck. Something inside made his stomach twist.


He approached slowly, climbing into the cab. And then he froze.


Two men sat motionless in their seats—bank guards. One slumped forward, forehead resting lifelessly against the steering wheel. The other was turned sideways in the passenger seat, his head lolled against the window. Both had clean, fatal bullet wounds in their skulls.


For once, Damon said nothing. He pressed a hand to his mask, rubbing his forehead as if the gesture could dull the sudden weight pressing on his chest.


“...Fuck,” he muttered quietly.


Removing Montana’s cowboy hat, he held it to his chest in a show of solemnity. Then he worked quickly, webbing all three thugs together and anchoring them to the dented van.


“Rich,” he said into his comm, his voice harder now, stripped of the usual levity. “Make the call.”


“I’m on it,” Richard replied, his tone just as grim in Damon’s ear.


By the time police sirens echoed faintly in the distance, Damon was back on a rooftop, crouched low, watching from above. His eyes lingered on the bodies in the truck, jaw tight behind the mask.


Then—WHOOSH!


A sudden green blur shot past his vision, the rush of displaced air jolting him upright. Damon blinked, shaking his head as if to clear it. He tracked the motion with his telescopic vision, locking onto the figure cutting through the sky.


“Rich… you seeing this?”


Flying ahead was a man clad in a metallic green wingsuit, every feather a razor-sharp blade glinting under the sun. His head was encased in a respirator-like mask, red glowing lenses for eyes. A heavy coat with fur lining flared dramatically in the wind.


“What the actual fuck…?” Richard breathed in his ear. “Is that guy dressed like a—like a Vulture?”