Alex POV:
My feet pound against the pavement as I sprint through the streets, leaping over mailboxes and weaving past parked cars. My lungs burn, legs pumping like pistons. Why am I always chasing shit. The van's tail lights glow dim in the distance, weaving through night traffic, barreling down side streets.
It's fast. But I'm faster. I have to be.
The lives of those teens depend on it. They're depending on me to protect them.
Right as I think that, I feel a sudden surge of power. Something like last night, when I let my instincts take me.
With the newfound power, push harder.
The van swerves down an alley, and I take the shortcut over it, bounding up a fire escape, vaulting over a laundry line, using the momentum to launch myself off the other side.
I land a few feet behind the van.
Close enough.
I feel energy coalescing to the tips of my fingers, and I hear a faint "Shik!"
Thank god.
I leap.
My claws bite into the steel of the back doors, anchoring me like a hook on a whale. I dig in deeper, climb up slightly, then grab hold of the hinges...
...and rip the doors clean off.
A loud ripping sound came from the van, and then followed a collection of clashing sounds, as the doors crashed into the road behind us with sparks flying everywhere.
There are 3 teens inside, one girl and two boys, all with dirty blonde hair. They're looking at me with fear and desperation. Their eyes flicker between me and the open trunk door, questioning themselves if they can jump out of the speeding car safely.
I immediately jump into action. I reach towards the person closest to me, who happens to be the girl, and was in the process of reaching out for the other two, when from the front of the van, the mobster with the suit walks out with a massive sawed-off shotgun.
I act as fast as possible. I push the two boys towards the walls so they won't get stuck in the crossfire, while I block the girl with my body.
BOOM!
The shot hits me square in the back, and I get sent barreling out the back of the van, one of the hostages in my arms.
Searing pain rushes through my nerves. I try to scream, but I don't have any air in my lungs.
Midair, I cradle the hostage as softly as possible, so that she won't get hurt. I can probably regenerate, while she can't.
I crash shoulder-first into the pavement, skidding across the asphalt in a haze of blood and grit. I hold her tight. I take every roll, every hit, until I hit the curb with my already battered and injured back, stopping my momentum.
I'm half-conscious, looking up to the dark night sky, back definitely fucked from not only the shotgun, but skidding across the asphalt.
I groan.
The teen I shielded clutches my hoodie and mumbles something. She's okay. A little bruised. But alive.
I push myself up on shaking arms, knees scraping against the cracked concrete. My head swims. The air tastes like blood and burnt powder.
I look up, blinking through the pain.
The van's already gone.
All I see are tail lights vanishing into the darkness.
With two kids still inside.
I slam my fist into the ground.
I failed.
That van, those kids, they were right there within reach. And I couldn't do it. I wasn't fast enough, strong enough, smart enough. The silence feels louder than anything I've ever heard. It rings in my ears like judgment. I keep seeing their faces. The fear in their eyes when they looked at me, and then the doors closed again.
I let them down.
And for the first time since I put this suit on, I feel helpless.
My hands shake as I press them into the concrete, trying to push the weight of that failure out of my body. It doesn't leave. It's crushing.
"My brothers..." The girl clenches my torn-up hoodie while mumbling.
The pavement's still digging into my knees, my hands trembling from adrenaline, when I hear it. tires screeching around the corner. Blue and red lights flash against the buildings, sirens wailing as a dozen cruisers swarm the block.
I instinctively step in front of the girl, my posture low, protective. I'm still trying to process what just happened, trying to calm the pounding in my chest. But the second the squad cars stop, I can feel every gun barrel snap toward me.
"Step away from the girl! Hands where I can see them!"
Multiple spotlights blast in my direction, and I squint through the glare, slowly raising my hands. My hoodie is half-shredded, blood soaking into the torn threads, with rough leather and fur being shown through the holes. I probably look like something out of a horror movie.
"This isn't-" I try to explain, but a couple of officers already have their fingers on the triggers.
Then the girl, still shaking, pushes past me.
"Wait, stop! He's not the one who took us!" she shouts, voice hoarse but firm. "He saved me! He saved us!"
One of the cops lowers his gun slightly, hesitant, but the others stay locked in.
He's a tall, gruff man who steps out from one of the crowd, silver streaks in his hair and worry in his eyes. His badge catches the light: Captain George Stacy.
He walks toward the girl slowly, pistol pointed towards the ground, eyes flickering from her to me.
"Gwen?" he asks, voice trembling. "Is that you?"
"Yeah," she nods, wiping loose tears from her face. "I'm fine, Dad. I'm okay, only thanks to him."
That gets a visible reaction. He stops mid-step, eyes narrowing on me again, this time not with cold, hard suspicion, but something more careful. Grateful.
"Me and my friends were returning home after a party, when a bunch of russian guys who looked like mobsters tried to kidnap us." She continues. "We were getting led to a van at gunpoint when the gunman noticed that most of the hostages were gone and his men had been taken out. He then took the remaining hostages, me, Philip, and Howard, and tried to drive off."
The girl, no, Gwen Stacy, takes a deep breath after mentioning her siblings. She continues her explanation, "He chased down the van, broke into the trunk, and tried to save us, but he took a shotgun to the back while protecting me."
There's a long pause. Captain Stacy looks at me again. I don't move. I just stand there on the side of the road, tired and bleeding, covered in small cuts and bruises, still subconsiously watching the street where the van disappeared.
His walkie suddenly crackles.
"We got something," a voice reports. "Spider-Man just showed up at the precinct. Fifteen teenagers were dropped off. Says they were almost kidnapped."
Captain Stacy raises the radio slowly to his mouth, while keeping eye contact with me.
"Copy that."
Then he suddenly turns to Gwen, as if he just remembered something.
"What about Philip and Howard? Where are they?"
Gwen stares at the ground and mumbles.
"They were taken."
Captain George Stacy's expression turns crestfallen immediately. He runs his hand through his greying hair in despair.
One of the officers, now less tense about me, walks up to the captain and whispers in his ear.
"Sir…" he murmurs, leaning in. "We've got early intel. It's the Russian mob. The higher-ups already flagged it. We're not… we're not supposed to touch them. Orders from above."
His jaw clenches, and his expression shifts even more defeated. Desperate.
His eyes hold mine. Not with the cold, distant judgment of an officer. But the raw, pleading look of a father who's run out of options.
"You're Ursa, right? One of the new vigilantes on the news recently."
I nod my head.
"Please, I beg you, not as a cop, but as a father, please get my sons back. They're still out there. I would like to go myself if I could, but my job doesn't allow me. I can see you're not in any shape to keep going," he motions at my injuries, and the blood pooling around me. "You work with Spider-Man, too, right? Maybe you could ask him-"
"I'll get them back," I say before I even think. I need to. It's my fault that I couldn't save them, and as a hero, as a protector, as a man with morals, I have the duty to get them back.
George Stacy's knees hit the ground. He doesn't even notice. Gwen rushes to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"I believe him, Dad," she says quietly. "When he got in front of me and took that shot, I could get a glimpse of his eyes past the mask. All I saw in those eyes was determination. He's a real hero."
I haul my bloody and broken body away from the location. The cops don't follow, held back by their captain.
I use all my remaining stamina to crawl up one of the buildings nearby. I lie on the roof.
I leave a voice memo for ned.
"I need you to track the whereabouts of the van with the licence plate number H75-2A9. I'm so tired. I'm gonna pass out for a while. Send me the location when you find it."
Good thing I have that memorized.
With the important matters cleared, I slowly drift off to sleep on that roof, my body pushed to its limits. The last thing I hear before drifting is a system notification, and a blue screen popping up in front of me.
[Quest Alert: Rescue Mission!]
[Save and rescue Howard and Philip Stacy, or however many other civilians, from the Russian Mob.]
[Reward: Random skill card depending on performance]
The sweet bliss of sleep overtakes me.