Fighting Chance Vol 2 #5b
Huh.
The handprint symbols looked harmless, shallow little groves tucked into the doorframe, almost dirty enough to go without being noticed unless you were looking for it.
Yeah, they definitely looked harmless, but Zain knew enough about Marvel (well, mostly Ultimate Marvel and the movies) to know that there was some weird organization that had something to do with hands that were in New York. Some kind of gang or something Daredevil fought, right?
Zain grazed the doorframe with his knuckles, the tiny hand-print sigils cool under calloused skin, grooves sharp enough to catch fingernails. Vince hovered behind him, bandana up to the bridge of his nose, eyes wide above the red cloth as if the symbols might crawl off the wood and chew through denim. Elvin blocked the alleyway entrance, hoodie stretched across, fists opening and closing like they already held throats.
After three weeks of chilling with him, it really didn’t surprise anymore why the guy chose Rage as his name. He might not have been in the comics, not that Zain ever read most of regular Marvel anyway, but the guy has to be Hulk-adjacent or something. He shot Elvin a look over his shoulder. Doesn’t like yellow, so that kinda shoots down him being young Luke Cage… but maybe Ultimate Luke Cage?
Zain frowned at that. Nah, Ultimate Luke Cage was dumb.
“This the spot?” Vince whispered, vowels sliding long—thuh spahht—his nerves sending that Arkansas drawl all the way up to the forefront.
“Symbols match.” Elvin’s knuckles cracked loud, second knuckle first, then third, the sound loud enough it was almost a tiny firework going off just a foot from Zain’s ears. “Sword-swinging weirdos about to lose their lease.”
Zain let the chain kiss concrete once, the soft rattle bringing it comfort as he wrapped it around his hand and Vince flamed on behind him. Then the both of them stepped back as Elvin moved forward, heavy iron-like hands already gripping the lock.
In a second, the tumblers surrendered, easily giving way to strength that could lift up one side of a van like a man could a couch and the door creaked inward on a hinge that had clearly never seen grease.
Zain could only stare at that, fighting the slight envy as he watched the lock fall apart and to the floor like it had just met a bolt cutter. Just a pull… He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he pushed that thought down.
Even still, it wasn’t enough for him to forget that Elvin could get five times stronger when he transformed, which was… a gap.
Speaking of gaps, they slipped through one as they skulked through the hall of the building they just broke into: Vince ghosted sideways so his flames wouldn’t brush the walls and before they knew it, they were all fully at the main room of this place, everything else silent.
Inside was dark and empty, no chairs or nothing.
What? Zain mouthed to himself as he glanced around.
Even in the gloom of the night, he could see that it was only tables and walls with maps smothering every surface—Queens spread open in front of him like a patient in one of the surgery videos his dad used to show him. It wasn’t alone either.
Manhattan was flayed out into grids, Brooklyn was stabbed all over by red Xs, and full of pins stretching yarn like arteries on… Jesus Christ, I know I wanted to be a doctor but enough with the surgery talk.
Zain shook his head as he walked forward and took in the rest of it that wasn’t just maps. Cork boards sagged under photos of suits, street kids, and local politicians Zain recognized from subway ads and newspapers, timestamps clipped neat, notes scratched in tight Japanese writing, arrows spidering from face to place to time.
He blinked in confusion. “Huh.”
“This don’t look like no crack lab,” Elvin rumbled out loud.
“Nah, crack labs don’t plot mayor moves,” he murmured, stepping around an overturned table, eyes widening a little at the sight of chalk outlines of more handprints. Jesus, is this a gang or cult?
Vince’s voice pitched thin. “Feels like some spy shit, fellers.”
Elvin tapped a picture of a little girl swinging in Prospect Park, kanji scribbled beside the swing chain. “Deadass, they stalking babies now?”
Zain’s eyes locked on an eight-by-ten of the mayor shaking hands outside City Hall, red circle around a lapel pin. Ice water rolled down his spine, almost making him shiver as it all pooled under his ribs.
Vince’s palms flickered hot but hesitated. “You sure, Z, I d—”
“No one’s doing any of this for good reason, V.” Zain shoved a stack of papers into Vince’s chest. “And it’s all on paper, so they ain’t doing this on computers or nothin’.”
The country boy shrugged and held all the documents and photos to his chest. Heat flared, paper curled black, flames blooming quick and silent and he burned up what little Zain had handed to him down to nothing. Dusting his hands clear of soot, the blond boy looked back up and shrugged again. “What else we burning?”
Without a word, Elvin yanked maps down, photos, everything, and handed them off to Vince to take care of. In no time at all, it was all done, and the place was at no risk at all of going up in flames.
Which was good, because Zain heard rent was really expensive in this city.
The three boys backed out of the building into the alley, two out of three sets of eyes watering from the smoke. Zain wiped sweat from his eyes, all too aware from the gritty feeling that he was spreading ash across his face. Take care of it later.
“Move.”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Wind cut harsher on the water-tower catwalk, rust squealing under sneakers.
Zain perched cross-legged on corrugated steel, chain poking out onto in his lap. Vince dangled boots over nothing, hoodie flapping, while Elvin sprawled flat, palms folded behind head, knuckles black with soot.
“Y’all ever want to stop pulling punches?” Vince’s voice drifted with the breeze, words thick, and vowels bending slow.
Zain tracked a helicopter’s path across the river, watching the blades fade in the distance as he took in the weight of his friend’s question with a sigh. “Define punches.”
“Some folks…” Vince’s shoulders hunched a little, “Well, don’t y’all think they deserve worse than broken noses?”
Elvin’s reply came lazy, tone casual and only a little bit threatening. “That’s why I break their bones.”
Zain rolled a shoulder, chain clinking around his waist as he moved. “Like E said, you can break their bones too. Line’s blurry at night.” He inhaled slow, a bit of smoke still in his lungs from the weird room they had found. “But line’s still there.”
“Who draws it?” Vince asked, chin dipping.
Zain’s tongue flicked behind teeth. “We do, till someone bigger disagrees.”
Silence stretched as nobody said anything else, interrupted only by the buzz of the city and by sirens half a dozen blocks off.
Then Zain heard it.
The worst of sounds.
“Yoo-hoooooooooo, fighter boy!”
Zain’s entire frame twitched, chain nearly uncoiling as he jerked to his feet and snapped his head around. It only took him a second or so before he found her, eyes locking on as they narrowed like a laser. No.
An upper building ledge two stories higher than where they rested held her weight as she crouched atop it, Black Cat in that glossy suit she swore was tactical but (literally) screamed Hello Kitty, white hair catching streetlight like silver floss. She waved with a slow catlike laziness, knowing all too well that he spotted her as they locked eyes.
“Fighter boo~oooy!” the words poured out in sing-song, each vowel sweeter and thicker than late-night diner maple syrup.
Zain slapped his face once as heat rose under his skin and not from the hard meeting of palm to cheek of a second ago. “Come on, universe, pick a different prank.”
Elvin rose to his own feet to glance between Cat and Zain, eyes wide. “You hidin sum’n, big dawg?”
“Never seen her in my life.” Zain grimaced, knowing the lie tasted thin.
“Looks like she seen you plenty,” Vince muttered, smirk audible even beneat his bandana.
Cat’s smile sharpened. “I’ve missed you, fighter booooooy.”
Zain leaned forward, hands covering his face. “Oh please god no.”