I struggle so much with writing characters, I find it really enjoyable though to world build so that's why in particular you see a lot of that here. Also, I'm new to this so cut me some slack kay? - A/N
The television clicks on. A woman with brown hair, fair skin, and blue eyes sits behind a desk, dressed in a tailored suit and facing the camera directly. A city skyline fills the backdrop behind her. She offers a practiced smile.
"Good evening, America. This is Helen Stone with USNYC News at Nine. Tonight, President Wilson Fisk addressed the nation on the ten-year anniversary of the Hero Reform Acts, and the twenty-year anniversary of World War Three."
The broadcast cuts to archival footage: powered quirk users battling through Manhattan, buildings collapsing, streets torn apart. Fires burn between shattered towers. Thousands are shown fleeing—or not fleeing at all.
The feed shifts again.
Wilson Fisk stands behind a podium. He is broad and imposing, dressed in a black suit and fedora, his bald head partially shadowed beneath the brim. He surveys the crowd before him. When he speaks, his voice is slow and deliberate, each word carefully measured.
"It has been only a decade since the event known as the Ultimatum," he says, pausing. His gaze drifts outward. "Which saw… New York City. My city."
His hand tightens briefly into a fist against the podium. He continues without raising his voice.
"Saw unprecedented destruction because masked quirk users were uncontrolled and allowed to roam free."
He falters for a moment. His expression tightens, the pause long enough for the crowd to lean in.
"My wife, Vanessa," he says, voice cracking slightly, "and my dear son Richard were killed during the brutality the so-called superheroes claimed to protect us from."
A murmur ripples through the audience. Fisk swallows, steadies himself, and continues.
"The masked vigilante group known as the Minute Men was disbanded following the Ultimatum. Each member was arrested for treason and acts of terrorism against the United States. Dr. Manhattan, once trusted, was confined to one of the most secure prisons on Earth."
He pauses again, scanning the crowd.
"We chose to begin again."
Fisk straightens.
"Look at all of you. New Yorkers. No matter the hardship, no matter the crisis, we endure. That is what I love about this city."
A softer smile crosses his face.
"And that is why, ten years ago, we chose a safer path. A better one. That is why I created the Avengers—to avenge those we lost."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May I
She mutes the tv, tears welling up in her eyes. The broadcast lingered on the data statistics, and Helen Stone's voice began drowning out as May's thoughts began taking over.
The room was quiet except for the hum of the television.
Her knitting slowed, yarn resting against her fingers.
"Poor man," she murmured, eyes on the replay of Fisk at the podium and his sorrowful expression. "After everything he's been through… losing his wife and son like that, and he still gets up there and talks about keeping people safe." She shook her head, a sad little smile tugging at her mouth. "I don't know how he does it…..I can barely do it."
She shakily swallows, and places the knit and the yarn down to the seat next to her on the couch. Aloud she thinks to herself. 'I should call Peter, it's getting late. He should be home soon. I couldn't bear it if I lost him too.'
She fishes on her sides. 'Where's my phone?' She thinks to herself. She stands up, and begins walking to her room. May stepped into her bedroom. The floor gives off a familiar creek under the slippers. The brass lamp by the bed was already on, coloring the room in a dim yellow, even the old floral curtains she's had for who knows how long. She looks around the room as she notices where her phone is on the nightstand. She notices those framed photos she had gotten that Ben always talked about visiting again someday. A couple of books and yarn scraps lay on the bed, the room pregnant with the silence she had gotten too used too. Her eyes went strait to the frame on the nightstand as they always did. The one of her and Ben, and Peter on his birthday, Peter was wearing a party hat, and had a toothy grin on his face. Ben was younger and had a calm but content smile. He always treated Peter like his own. Ben's arms were slung easily around her shoulders, and she was grinning like everything would stay the same. She sniffles. She cries the name Ben into an empty room, falling onto her knees. If only she knew. Why Ben? Why did you have to be the hero.
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PETER I
Queens. He always loved his city. Not in your I-heart "NYC" shirt kinda way, in the kinda way that came from the view that you could only see when you were high enough too. Yes, he admits that New York is a shithole, loud, crack addicts everywhere, and assholes living up to the stereotype, but he just can't help himself. From here on top of a subway, he could see the rooftops leaning into one another as if they were old friends, water towers and smoke, and the sunset breaking up the skyline was simply majestic. He always held a deep appreciation for Queens, in fairness it's all he's ever known. He's never been out of the state, let alone the city.
He pulls out his phone from his jean pocket. He had paused the music only a moment prior to think, but he believes he's done now and so he unpauses the music, the song plays. "Someday We'll All Be Free" by Donny Hathaway, he shuffles his headphones and leans further back on the cart to get a larger view of the sunset, a small but content smile on his face. He can feel his camera resting against his chest. He always got overwhelmed with everything, so it was nice once in a while to come up here and feel free.
His feet dangle off the subway as he continues to lean back, he hoists his backpack which throughout the last months has collected a variety of wares & tares. The city noise blurs into the background sirens, car horns, some distant argument drifting up from the street until it all just blends into the music. The chorus arrives, and Peter begins tapping with his thumb against his phone, thumping along to the music.
He feels mesmerized by the voice, and once the chorus arrives he feels incredibly relaxed."Take it from me, someday we'll all be free, yeah." He closes his eyes. It's just so peaceful.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tony I
Tony swirled the wine in his glass, watching it slosh like a tiny storm in a crystal hurricane until it sloshed right onto his jacket. "Perfect," he muttered, eyeing the spreading red stain on four grand's worth of Italian tailoring. "Another suit ruined." Dark had fallen hours ago. He had been parked at this table since noon, drowning the day in vintage cabernet.
The suit. He was sick of it. His Iron Man armor felt stale and stiff, a cage in all but name locked around him by the Hero Reform Acts. They trotted him out like a show pony for Fisk's photo ops, pulling every string while he played hostage in his own tech. Brilliant.
Rage boiled over. He shoved back from the table. The chair screeched. He hurled the glass across the room. It exploded against a priceless abstract. Glass shards rained down. Wine pooled like blood on the hardwood. He drew a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. Quiet settled, broken only by the hammer in his chest: thump-thump-thump.
"Sir." JARVIS's voice cut in, smooth as ever, with just a ghost of a pause.
Tony arched his brow. Hesitation? From his AI? "Talk to me, J."
"It's five o'clock, sir."
Tony blinked. "And?"
"You missed your cardiac scan. And dose two of the meds, palladium levels are spiking again." The words landed like a polite gut punch.
He swallowed hard. His throat suddenly felt tight. Right. That. "Gotta be kidding me. Do we have to?"
"Technically, sir, you could order me to skip it. Nothing is stopping you sir." Dry as a desert. Classic JARVIS.
Tony barked a laugh. "When'd I code sass into you?"
A beat. "I learn from the best."
"Flattery'll get you a hardware upgrade." No matter the leash Fisk had him on, JARVIS stayed loyal. Good thing he hadn't named the guy after his father, Howard, that would've been awkward. His only friend shares the same name as his father. Tony shrugged and sidestepped the glittering mess. "Fine, health first. Let's hit the shop. Oh, and JARVIS? Cleaners for this abstract expressionism disaster?"
"Already en route, sir. Your contributions to modern art are greatly appreciated. Very twenty-first century."
A/N