Chapter 37: Wick John Kane
Miles, however, wasn't the type to let things go so easily. He webbed after Bruce's retreating form.
"They're gone, right? The other Spider-People?" That was the first thing out of his mouth once he caught up, needing to confirm the hope.
Batman paused, looking back at the teenager. His earlier assessment of this particular spider's intellect needed revision. There was persistence there.
Maybe Miles realized how obvious the question was. He scratched the back of his head, a little embarrassed. "Do you... do you think we'll ever see them again?" he asked, this time his voice quieter, more serious. He genuinely wanted an answer from the looming figure before him.
But the Bat gave none. He fired his grapple gun and was gone, swinging away into the pre-dawn gloom, leaving Miles standing alone on the rooftop.
This time, Miles didn't follow. He knew he wouldn't get the answer he wanted, only more silence. He just needed to talk to someone about the impossible whirlwind he'd been through, even if he couldn't share the whole truth.
He took a long, shaky breath, straightened up, and watched the dark silhouette vanish into the distance. He patted his own cheeks, a self-administered wake-up slap.
A promise was a promise. He hadn't been the one to shut down the collider, but Peter Parker—his Peter—had entrusted him with something else. To protect this city. To be its Spider-Man.
While the Bat and the fledgling Spider went their separate ways, another species descended on the chaos in Brooklyn: journalists. They swarmed the cordon like sharks smelling blood. They knew the post-blast scene was dangerous, but in this city, danger and career-making opportunity were two sides of the same coin. A story this big could mean awards, fame, everything.
Some arrived even before the specialized emergency units. The sky wasn't filled with police helicopters yet, but with news choppers, their spotlights painting the wreckage.
When the reporters on the ground finally breached the outer perimeter, they couldn't believe their eyes. Wilson Fisk—philanthropist, tycoon, pillar of the community—was bound to a fire hydrant with high-tech cabling. Next to him, his albino enforcer, Tombstone. And between them, planted in the asphalt like some grim trophy, was a bat-shaped throwing weapon.
"Comics... are real," one reporter whispered, her voice filled with a kind of terrified awe.
The shock wore off quickly, replaced by frenzy. They descended on Officer Jefferson Davis, the highest-ranking cop on the initial scene.
"Officer! What caused the explosion? Is Wilson Fisk a suspect? Does that weapon mean a new masked vigilante has appeared in New York?"
The questions came like gunfire. Jefferson was drowning.
"The cause of the explosion is under investigation—" he began, but another microphone was shoved in his face.
"Is the individual who apprehended Fisk using comic book iconography?"
"Was this a terrorist act?"
"Why was the NYPD unaware?"
Jefferson, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, was saved by an unexpected intervention.
"Alright, alright, folks. I think you've grilled this officer enough for one night." A man in a sharp, dark suit stepped smoothly between Jefferson and the press corps. Jefferson was grateful, but his cop instincts kicked in. He'd never seen this guy before. And who wore sunglasses at night?
"Sir, are you with the department?" Jefferson asked, his hand resting subtly near his sidearm.
"My apologies," the man said, removing his sunglasses to reveal a bland, forgettable face. He produced a leather wallet, flipping it open. "Federal Bureau of Investigation."
As he did, other men and women in similar dark suits materialized, calmly but firmly expanding the police cordon and gently steering reporters back.
Jefferson studied the credentials. They looked legit, but in the chaos, he couldn't be sure. The man didn't seem to care about the scrutiny. He walked over to where Kingpin was beginning to stir, looking down at the former ruler of New York's underworld.
He smiled. A small, cold thing.
Then he bent and plucked the batarang from the ground, turning it over in his hands.
"New player," he murmured to himself.
The next morning, dawn light cut through the lingering smoke over Brooklyn. The early news was dominated by one story.
"...after an initial investigation, the massive explosion in Brooklyn last night has been linked to Wilson Fisk, the businessman and philanthropist..."
Bruce Wayne paid little attention to the newscaster's script. He was focused on the image now splashed across every screen: Wilson Fisk in handcuffs, being led into a federal vehicle. That image was a bomb in its own right. The Fisk empire, built on a framework of the old Oscorp assets, was now toxic. The board of directors—many holdovers from the Oscorp days who had always despised Fisk's thuggish grandstanding—would be scrambling for the exits. No one wanted to be tied to a man who had nearly blown up a borough.
In a sleek, high-rise boardroom, panic was indeed the order of the day.
"This is a massacre!"
"When will Fisk's recklessness stop?!"
"How could this happen?!"
The air was thick with fear and opportunism.
"Sir, you can't go in there! You can't—!" A secretary's voice, shrill with alarm, echoed from the hallway.
The double doors to the boardroom were thrust open. Several imposing, professional-looking bodyguards entered first, taking positions along the walls. They were followed by a man who moved with the easy, unquestioned authority of someone who owned every room he entered.
He wore a flawlessly tailored Gucci suit that screamed old money and quiet power. His presence silenced the room.
"Now see here! Who are you?!" one of the older directors spluttered, rising from his chair.
The man offered a calm, charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Wick. Wick John Kane."
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