I'm releasing extra chapters because I have commitments until Tuesday. I hope you understand.
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On Friday afternoon, October 27th, after leaving Midtown High, I decided it was finally time to upgrade my inventory. I couldn't keep patrolling Queens dressed like a bum. I took a portion of the cash expropriated from the gangs and spent my time scouting secondhand shops, independent textile workshops, and flea markets in the most forgotten areas of Queens and Brooklyn. I bought a massive amount of high-density stretch fabrics, reinforced threads, and flexible synthetic leather.
I needed enough to be able to repair my suit when things got ugly, but mainly, I bought several extra yards of deep crimson fabric for a completely twisted reason. An arrogant smirk spread across my face as I carried the bags toward the subway. I knew perfectly well that Matt Murdock wasn't operating as Daredevil in 2006 New York yet, and this universe didn't seem to be the exception. It struck me as a hilarious and ridiculous idea to buy that material with the sole purpose of manufacturing, in the future, the suit of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. I would be the first Daredevil of this universe purely for the laughs and to troll.
Upon arriving home, I took advantage of Aunt May being busy and locked myself in my bedroom. I scattered the materials across the bed, pulled out Aunt May's sewing kit, and got to work. As I measured the fabric, my mind drifted back for a split second to the school hallway from yesterday. I felt a little bad for having so coldly ignored Liz Allan when she walked past us surrounded by cheerleaders. She had given me a flirtatious smile and a "Hey, Petey." and I hadn't even answered her because I was so focused on Gwen. Noticing how her expression deflated a bit left a bad taste in my mouth. Being an absolute son of a bitch to criminals at night didn't mean hurting the feelings of the regular people around me who did nothing wrong.
Instantly, my mental projections appeared, floating above the bed in a corner of my head. Even though they spent their time fighting and bickering in jest, deep down they cared for each other and shared the same mind. They sat down together on the edge of the blanket, giving each other a knowing elbow nudge while looking at me with mischievous grins.
"Look at him, the boss is playing both sides!" the original mini Peter teased, dressed as a little angel in his lab coat, patting the mini college student on the back. "Thinking about Liz. What are you gonna do when MJ shows up, play three sides?" The mini college-me burst out laughing, playfully putting his arm around the little angel's shoulder while using the bundle of Daredevil's crimson fabric like a cape. "Three sides? Think bigger, kid. Wait until Black Cat shows up on the map, and this guy is gonna be playing four sides. He'll need a quantum computer just to organize his dating schedule." Both chibis laughed at me in perfect complicity, sharing that ridiculous humor that brought a grin to my face.
I dismissed them with a thought and focused on the actual task. I measured, cut, and pieced every shred of fabric together with precision. For the design, I completely discarded the classic, flashy bright red and blue of the traditional Spider-Man. I was no boy scout, nor did I want to be seen as a friendly hero. Instead, I brought to life on the fabric an exact replica of one of the versions I respected the most ideologically, the suit of Assassin Spider-Man from Earth-8351.
By late evening, the suit was finished. I stripped down and slid into the cloth suit for the first time, adjusting the stretch material as it molded to my mutated musculature. I pulled on the mask and looked into the mirror. The result was imposing and freezing. The upper section of the torso and the head were a dense, dark red, cut by a sharp-legged black spider on the chest, while the shoulders, arms, and the rest of the body were a completely smooth charcoal black. The eye lenses, black and opaque, hid any trace of humanity in my gaze.
Hidden beneath the fabric of the collar, I adjusted the compact voice modulator I had finished upgrading that morning, snapping it into place right at my throat. I stretched my arms and flexed my wrists, hearing the perfect click of my reinforced web-shooters, ready to channel the pressure of my organic webbing without flying off.
That Friday night, I had dinner with my aunt and uncle, maintaining my usual warmth and kindness, devouring every portion with the insatiable appetite of my metabolism. As soon as I verified they were both sound asleep, I slipped out the window. I now wore a suit worthy of being, for the time being, the single most powerful individual in the United States.
I crossed the bridge into Manhattan, stopping minor crimes, and without realizing it, I ended up in Hell's Kitchen. I crossed paths with Kingpin's men, who were extorning a restaurant owner in an alley.
"Wow, Wilson Fisk sure spends money on tailoring, too bad it doesn't cover mouthguards." I said through the voice modulator, which transformed my words into a distorted tone.
"What the hell is that thing?! Shoo—!" the first thug didn't finish his sentence.
I snapped his arm with a swift strike, wrestled the gun away, and used the barrel to knock the second one out with a heavy blow. The third tried to pull a switchblade, but to my eyes, he looked like a turtle in slow motion; I grabbed him and slammed him into the pavement with just enough force to knock him unconscious. I looked around for the guy they had been harassing, but he had bolted long ago, so I started searching their coats, netting three thousand dollars before leaping back up to the rooftops. That same Friday early morning, I paid a visit to Queens, dropping onto a minor Maggia shipment where I sent four more thugs to the hospital and emptied their wallets.
On Saturday morning, I made it back home by six, hid the loot in the false bottom of my closet, which was already bursting at the seams, and set to work quietly organizing everything before having breakfast with my aunt and uncle, acting completely normal. In the afternoon, I went out to hang out with Ned and Harry. We hit up the arcades in Times Square, spending a few dollars on the arcade machines of the era and devouring giant slices of greasy pizza. Seeing Harry get frustrated after losing a racing game to Ned and listening to the CEO of Sex's jokes reminded me why this world was worth it. The affection I felt for them was real; I wasn't a cold machine to my friends, I cared about them, and spending a normal afternoon with friends gave me some much-needed peace before unleashing the monster again at night.
Saturday night was Brooklyn and Chinatown's turn. My stamina was in full gear, I knew my body could handle up to 72 hours without collapsing as long as I avoided constant life-or-death combat, so I kept going without sleeping. In Brooklyn, I intercepted a clandestine Manfredi gambling den. I crashed through the ceiling skylight and landed right on the poker table.
"All-in? I'm afraid the house always wins, morons." I mocked before dodging a shot by simply tilting my head.
I immobilized two guys by pinning them to the floor with bursts of webbing and broke another one's ribs with a sidekick. I walked away with about five thousand dollars from that place. From there, I moved to Chinatown, where I ambushed a faction of the Chinese triads smuggling drugs. I hung them upside down from public lampposts after beating them senseless and took the stacks of cash they had on them.
On Sunday, I spent the entire day locked in the public library studying with Gwen. During the afternoon, my phone wouldn't stop vibrating in my pocket with persistent calls from Liz Allan. Taking advantage of Gwen going to look for a biochemistry book on the shelves, I pulled out the mobile and sent her a quick text to apologize and maintain control of the situation: "Sorry for not answering, I'm busy right now and I have my phone on silent. If you want, let's meet up sometime this week at the diner to continue with your tutoring, let me know what day works for you."
As Sunday night fell, I put the suit back on for the final leg of the marathon. I roamed Manhattan's financial districts, clearing a couple of Hell's Kitchen alleys infested with Russian mobsters trafficking weapons. I humiliated them, dodging their clumsy swings as if dancing, before leaving them bloody on the ground and collecting another two thousand dollars from their pockets.
Around three in the morning on Monday, I decided that was enough. I had stretched my stamina to over 60 consecutive hours, my muscles were protesting from the accumulated fatigue, and I needed to make a mandatory stop if I didn't want to collapse right in the middle of class. I rushed back to Forest Hills, emptied my backpack full of thousands of dollars into the closet hiding place, and collapsed onto the bed for a couple of deep, restful hours of sleep.
By Monday morning, the city of New York had completely shifted its conversation. While I was having breakfast peacefully in the kitchen, enjoying the homely warmth of Aunt May pouring the coffee, the TV reflected the media chaos I had sown in just three nights. The local news talked about nothing else:
"...NYPD sources confirm over a dozen clandestine raids carried out this weekend across Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens," the reporter informed from the courthouse steps. "The hospitalized criminals belong to different factions such as the Maggia, the Chinatown triads, and the Russian mob from Hell's Kitchen..."
I gently set my coffee cup on the table, staring at the screen with a smile I hid behind a look of subtle surprise. I glanced at Uncle Ben, who was quietly reading the newspaper. I felt such a deep affection for this man that knowing I was using my power to keep him and May safe gave me a strength that made me feel invincible.
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Question: What do you think of the chibi versions? Should I keep them or remove them?