Marvel: Quest System

(BGM: Pray For Me by The Weekend and Kendrick Lamar)

Alex POV:

The moon hangs low over the East River, casting a silver glow across the docks' unmoving waters. Cargo containers are piled up neatly like forgotten tombstones, rusting, silent, each one big enough to hide anything. Somewhere in this metal jungle, two kids, and who knows how many more, are waiting, praying, for someone to save them. I'm their only hope.

I sit perched atop a storage warehouse, cloaked in darkness. My fingers fidget across my belt, tracing the outlines of four small vials strapped to the leather. Health potions. A dull, muted red. 

To be honest, I shouldn't need this because of my newly discovered regeneration trick. If I get hurt, all ill need to do is eat a shit ton then sleep it off. But who knows what'll happen.

Tap. Tap. Tap. My foot won't stop tapping on the floor. No, not for some sort of echolocation, but because I just can't stop fidgeting.

It's not fear exactly. I don't actually know what it is.

It's like SCP 55. I know it's not a (s)fear, but I'm not sure what it actually is. It could be guilt. Responsibility. Just a nagging feeling in the back of my head. (a/n Elite ball knowledge)

I glance over my shoulder, using my enhanced senses to scan the surrounding rooftops for any sign of movement. Empty. Just me and the shadows. Peter's late.

Not that I blame him. It's barely past midnight, and we agreed to hit the docks before the transfer, which is supposed to be at 3 am. I just don't like waiting. Not now, at least. IT might be because this is my first real failure to save somebody, but every second I wait, the unidentified emotion just gets louder.

Then, finally, I hear the soft thwip of a web and a certain spider-themed nerd.

A silhouette swings through the air, flipping twice to dispel the momentum before landing silently on the ledge beside me. His suits blacked out with the camouflage option again.

It feels kinda weird seeing an all black Spider-Man. No red and blue like the iconic suit, no black and white like the iconic symbiote suit, just straight vanta black.

"You good?" Ned asks through the Discord call.

"Define good." I mutter, standing up and rolling my shoulders.

He pauses for a second. "If that's your reply, definitely not whatever you're feeling."

"Yup. I think I'm just paranoid because the stakes are so high." I sigh.

Peter claps my shoulder. "Well, it can't be that bad. Just like the warehouse. Immobilize the goons, grab the hostages, and delta."

He manages to sneak a grin out of me. "Ay choom, did you just use night city slang on me?"

"You bet I did." I can practically see his grin through his mask. "You ready to get this party started?"

"Of course," I reply, now with my mood raised thanks to my friends.

We both crouch at the ledge again, this time analyzing the situation.

Below us, floodlights flicker over the maze of cargo boxes. Steel containers are stacked three stories high in tight grids, forming a legitimate labyrinth. Guards patrol the rows, Russian mobsters in pairs, dressed in thick jackets with tactical gear underneath, some holding SMGs, some holding AK-47s.

With my advanced hearing, I count at least 40 footsteps. But that's just how much I can feel with my senses, which I'm still trying to improve at using. Who knows how many are hidden deeper inside?

At the far end of the docks, an old cargo ship bobs in the open body of water, chained to the pier. Floodlights surround it, and I can faintly spot even more guards patrolling its deck. That's gotta be the transfer point. The shipment. That's where the hostages are going if we don't act fast.

"Are we doing the inside-out or outside-in method?" Peter whispers.

"We clear the outside first and go in. We can defend ourselves, but we can't leave any danger for the hostages that can't."

Ned's voice crackles softly in our ears. "I've disabled exterior cameras on the east half. But be quick. They might notice in a few minutes. I looped the security video feed, so they'll probably sense something off by the 10th loop."

"Let's do this." I whisper. "It's showtime."

We split up like usual.

I drop from the roof silently, landing in a crouch between two containers. The air smells like salt, oil, and gunpowder.

Two guards patrol ahead, laughing in hushed Russian. One stops to light a cigarette. Bad move. I surge forward, my movement like a gust of wind.

The first guard's head hits the container with a muffled thunk. I twist behind the second before he can turn, arm around his neck. Using a blood choke, he falls asleep in seconds. I drag both into the shadows, shoving them in a crate labelled "furniture". Yeah, definitely not furniture.

Like I guessed, it was full of probably illegal weaponry. I feel a weird sense of déjà vu. Maybe this will be as light as the warehouse we stormed last night.

Overhead, I see Peter swing through like a ghost, silently webbing up a guard standing under a flickering light by the mouth. The man vanishes upward with a fwp! and a yelp muffled by the webs.

We keep moving.

Every takedown is a heartbeat. Every breath, synchronized. We're like shadows. Fast, surgical, silent.

Peter swings low and snatches a guy from behind a stack of tires, webbing his mouth mid-yell and sticking him onto the roof of a cargo container.

I slide under a truck, yank his ankles into a takedown, and use a jujutsu hold to choke him out. I leave him under the truck.

Peter webs two more to the underside of a crane. I hear one try to whisper, "Что за чёрт—" before he's strung up like a piñata.

Ned gets two in the river. (In league of legends)

Near the docks, I silently drop behind two thugs comparing combat knives. One of them jokes about cutting throats.

He gets a fist to the nose and a complimentary nap instead.

Twenty minutes pass. The outer docks are clear.

"I think I got everyone," Peter whispers into comms, perched on top of a crane for an aerial view.

"Same on my side," I reply, wiping a smear of blood off my gauntlet from that last guy's crushed nose..

But just as I exhale, I hear it, static crackle, on a guard's dropped radio.

"25 personnel failed to report on time. Possible break-in. Sending backup. Be ready."

Shit. They have some kind of check-in system with the guards. I didn't think of that.

I press my comm. "Ned. They called backup."

"Yeah. I'm seeing activity across two channels. They're expecting a full raid now. Reinforcements from the city have just mobilized. ETA five minutes."

Peter lands next to me in a crouch. "We don't have time."

"We're not leaving without them."

Peter nods, then looks toward the dark city skyline with narrowing eyes, probably imagining the reinforcements. "I'll stay behind. Slow the reinforcements. Buy you time."

"You sure?"

He claps my shoulder. "I've got better movement. If shit goes south, I can web out easily. You? You'd have to punch through a small army."

He grins. "Besides, I've seen how much you regretted not being able to save those teens. Go get them back."

I hesitate, then bump his fist. "Don't die."

He launches up with a thwip, fading into the shadows.

Now it's just me.

I push forward, heart thumping louder the deeper I go. Without company, the emotion comes back, nagging at me.

The floodlights are dimmer here, flickering in a broken rhythm. The crates are replaced by steel containers, each one locked, silent.

Until I find it.

Tucked away behind a stack of metal barrels is a container, doors slightly ajar.

I pull at the doors. They open without much resistance, with a slow creak.

Inside, there they are.

A dozen kids, probably between the ages of 13 to 18, huddled together asleep on a makeshift mattress. Pale, scared, but breathing. Two older ones with the recognizable dirty blonde hair. Philip and Howard Stacy.

Found them.

I step forward, hand already moving to my belt for a health potion in case any of them are wounded.

Then I hear it. No, I felt it. a woosh. I instinctively dodge to the left.

Thunk.

A dagger slams into the wall where my head used to be, grazing my cheek, somehow cutting through my thick hide. A drop of blood escapes and drops onto the floor.

The cold steel buried deep in the metal. Just inches off of hitting me.

I slowly turn.

From the shadows outside the container's mouth, a figure steps into view. Two things shine through the dark.

One, his manic grin.

Two, the shining white bullseye on his forehead.