I just threw a bunch of references, and lowkey, if you can't find them, it'd be sad.
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The city's hum was faint in the background, muffled by the hiss of oil fryers and the soft buzz of fluorescent lights that painted everything in an anemic shade of yellow. Kaine stood behind the counter, dressed in his uniform — red and yellow, synthetic fabric that clung uncomfortably to his frame — the attire of the anonymous working class. His nametag read "Kane" instead of "Kaine." The oversight had amused him once. Now, he wore it like armour.
Outside, the evening light had already faded to the dull orange of dusk. The streets were wet from a recent drizzle, and the dumpsters in the alley gave off the heavy stench of damp paper and rot. A black garbage bag thudded into one of them, thrown with mechanical precision. Kaine didn't look back. The task was done.
Inside, he returned to his post behind the register, motion fluid but detached. Each step was calculated, every gesture deliberate. It wasn't exhaustion that dulled him — it was disinterest. His mind was elsewhere, replaying fragments of earlier failures. The conversation with Harry Osborn.
The missed opportunity to secure access to an unmonitored lab. A weakness — social ineptitude, he named it — that hindered his pursuit of efficiency. But perfection, he reminded himself, was never instant. It was iterative.
He had concluded that this experiment — "employment" — could serve two functions: resource acquisition and observation. Here, among the bored and the hungry, Kaine could study human behaviour in its most routine, predictable form. The dull repetition of service was its own kind of field study.
And so, he played his role.
He adjusted the brim of his paper hat and greeted the next customer with a voice bright enough to make his own skin crawl."Hello! Are you ready to order? Apologies for the wait — our ice cream machine broke in the middle and won't be back for a few years!"
The woman blinked, confused but too polite to comment. Kaine's artificial smile never faltered.
"I'm sorry," he said, Was that a medium or large fries?"
"Yes," he answered warmly, tone unwavering. "We are also having a special on our McNagi Burger. Would you like a side of Tap Lift nuggets with that?"
Her brow furrowed. "Uh… what?"
Kaine's head tilted slightly, still smiling. "Yes, our 'All For Nothing' deal lasts until the eighth season, but it's non-refundable."
Someone snickered in the back of the line. He didn't notice.
"And no, Miss," he continued cheerfully to a different customer, "the Demon King does not work here. Please try the next fast-food chain."
Each line delivered perfectly, every phrase an echo of overheard absurdities that passed for humour among his peers. Humans responded positively to wit and self-deprecation; that was the data. What they didn't realize was that Kaine wasn't joking. He was learning.
By the time the next customer approached, the rhythm of the performance had become instinctual. His body worked automatically — a hand on the register, a tray in motion, a bright and hollow laugh at the right moment. Beneath the surface, however, Kaine's true attention pulsed with surgical focus. Every tone, posture, word — recorded. Catalogued. Analyzed.
Then the air shifted.
A woman stepped forward. Middle-aged, plainly dressed, carrying the weight of someone who worked too hard for too little. To any other cashier, she was unremarkable. But Kaine's eyes, sharp and red under the flickering lights, saw the details others didn't — the calluses on her fingers, the faint indentation near her wrist where a concealed weapon's strap had once rested, the stiffness in her gait suggesting recent injury.
He had seen her before.
Not here — but through a broken camera feed in an abandoned warehouse on the Lower East Side. One of the handlers. A courier for something larger, quieter, spreading through New York like a tumour. The Empire, they called it — and above it all, a name whispered by those he'd already dismantled: Kingpin.
Kaine's polite expression didn't waver.
"Welcome to McNagi's," he said softly, hands folded neatly on the counter. "Can I take your order?"
Her eyes flicked up, meeting his for just an instant. Something in his gaze made her hesitate — a flicker of instinct, of recognition she couldn't quite place.
The corner of Kaine's mouth lifted just enough to mimic warmth. Inside, his pulse slowed to a perfect rhythm.
Prey has entered proximity.
He handed her the menu, head slightly tilted, eyes calm and unblinking. "Take your time," he said gently. "We have… all the time you need."
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[Auther: Yes, he lied. He never became the NO.1 Hero, he isn't even a hero...and don't say working with heroes makes you one. He doesn't have a ranking, so screw off.]