1963-08-05 - Black Mark on Central Park
Summary: Carol Danvers has a problem. In spite of just being a security guard now, she can't look away from crimes being commited. Unfortunately, she also has blackouts now - fortunately… Spider-Man is in the area.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
carol peter 

New York's Central Park had a good reputation in the 60s for the most part. The denizens of the greatest city in the world would frequent it, weekends were busy with Shakespeare in the park, concerts, sporting events, and just enjoyable gatherings meant to celebrate people, the arts, and humanity. Though it was also a place that was a focal point for protests, usually it was a place just for people to come together and enjoy nature in a way that is often difficult in a general urban setting.

Tonight is no different than the last few weekends. A play was put on earlier in the evening, and there's still refuse left scattered about that most likely will be picked up in the early morning. Yet with the influx of tourists there is often an influx of crime. In later years, New York would recognize this as an effect of different firearms laws from one borough to another. So it was around this time that Central Park would serve as a decent meeting place for people looking to sell hot gats, and for others to pick them up a Saturday night special.

"C'mon, buddy. We got a .45, a .38 snub, and a .44 if yer lookin' ta spend a pretty penny." The man's patter is practiced, that much is clear as he stands beside an old sedan that'd seen better days. He's got an arm on the raised trunk door as he gestures to the weapons on display inside while a group of six young men in leather jackets are all jockeying for a position to see the weapons better.

"You buy two, mebbe I'll give you a deal on this 12 gauge. Whatcha think?"

"What'll forty bucks get me?" The discussion continues in the dimly lit parking lot so close to the park itself. There are still occasional passersby, but none taking notice.


New York's Central Park was not a place that Carol had frequented often.

The plays were interesting - and indeed, that was drew her here today. But as far as things went, she was a woman a bit down on her luck. She couldn't ever shake the military posture or look about her, but there were things fraying at the edge of the superspy's being. One could see that in her hair - in desperate need of a brushing, with strands going hither and yon.

Dressed in a comfy - roomy sweater, a pair of reasonable jeans, and a pair of boots that went up to her knees, with the denims tucked into the same, Carol Danvers was walking through the park - from one of the aforementioned plays.

And, perhaps, drawn by the scent of weapons - or at least crime - she folds her arms over her front, and steps towards the men selling the weapons. Lifting up her chin, she was acting particularly nosy, perhaps - dark circles under her eyes, and no makeup. But she radiated the aforementioned aura with every note of her body. The ramrod straight way she carried herself, the look in her eyes, the easy smile that she had, hiding who knows what beneath it.

She cants her head to one side, her eyes flickering down to the weapons. She had a couple weapons already. But perhaps… "These things aren't entirely legal, are they?" she asks, flickering her eyes from one man to another. Before her gaze settles upon the presented weapons. "What would you suppose if I…"

Carol takes one step backwards - she blinks rapidly, her left arm lifting - and in the next moment, collapses to the ground, her eyes wide open, along with her mouth - pupil dilating and flickering back and forth - seeing things… or perhaps seeing nothing at all.


Their response initially was annoyance, anger. One of them even piped up, "Go to hell, Lady!"

The guy doing the selling closed the trunk, narrowly avoiding the fingers of one of the gang members. He gives Carol the finger and says, "Mind your own business, baby doll. Keep on walkin' before someone…"

And then his words trail off as that woman he was harassing just straight out keels over. It's enough that it stops everyone from talking, the gangsters looking amongst themselves, turning to each other, then to the arms dealer. "What'd you do?"

"I didn't do nothin'. The fuck?" He starts to step away from the car, pulling a pistol from the back waistband of his pants and clicking the hammer back. He looks around curiously, as if seeking a sniper from afar, but then he moves closer o the woman.

"Lady. Hey. Lady. You okay?" He asks as he gets closer. One of the gangsters gives a high-pitched giggle, "Look at her eyes, what the hell is that?"

"Bad LSD." One says but the largest of the gang members walks over and casually nudges her body with the toe of his black leather boot, the big bulldog on his jacket catching the light for the moment.


That toe that nudges her body causes her arm to move, really. She rolls over onto her back with that nudge, and her arm sweeps forward - just… brushing, really - brushing the side of the bulldog ganger's foot. And with that brush, she basically just bowls him over. Effortlessly - unless the man had the presence of mind to jump or get out of the way of that idle sweep of her arm.

But Carol herself doesn't blink. Heels dig into the ground now that she was on her back, but her eyes - constantly jolting back and forth. Bad LSD was a good guess. Epilepsy might have been as well.

Saving might be something quite needed, although - one imagines that she was only in danger of having her wallet stolen. Perhaps worse.


One moment the ganger is looking down at her, nudging her… and then the next he's tossed almost effortlessly to the ground as her almost careless gesture just knocks him over onto his hands and knees as he scrambles to get his footing.

Naturally this causes the other gangsters to bray with laughter as they point at their friend, a laughter that gets the guy on the ground to snap, "Shut the hell up!"

The laughter ceases. But then one of them says, "Mebbe we should put a wallet under her tongue."

"Nah, I got a better idea," One of them pipes up with as he starts to lean over her from above, hands reaching towards her top as if seeking purchase.

But then a voice lifts from behind them, coming from above and apparently perched upon a flickering streetlamp. "You fellas aren't up to no good, are you?"

The gangsters and the arms dealer turn around as one, and aren't able to see where the voice comes from due to the way the light shines on them. One of them lifts his hand to his brow trying to see through the gleam.

"I mean, seven guys huddled around an unconscious woman seems kinda shady to me."

"Fuck off!"

The arms dealer grimaces, "This whole thing is goin' south." He turns and brandishes his gun. "Deal's off!"

"But we need those guns, the hell are we gonna do when the Irish Kings come on through?"

"Not my problem. Now back off!" He holds the pistol up and then suddenly.

/Thwip!/ A long cord seems to latch upon the firearm and flick it out of the man's grip. And appearing out of the night dropping onto the parking lot in a crouch with his hands splay-fingered on the ground and balanced on the balls of his feet is Spider-Man. "You." He points at the dealer, "Aren't going anywhere. You guys…" He points at the gangsters, "Can beat feet, since I figure you must have an Elvis movie to be extras in."


Whatever happened to her seemed to be finished. She slumps in place, as opposed to the taut tension of before. Unaware of the activity of the gangsters around her, her eyes finally close in those moments. Dimly, dimly, dimly - she was unaware of how the men around her were behaving - indeed, it was like someone hit a reset button in her mind.

She didn't know where she was - wasn't even sure /when/ she was. But she becomes aware of a shadow over her, and the presence of the man reaching over her. Lifting her chin, she groans a bit, her lips turning down into a frown, and her fingers curling into fists, when…

When, well, the whole thing goes sideways.

"We're not goin' anywhere, freak," says one of the gangsters, pointing at Spider-Man, then pointing at the dealers. "And /neither/ are you. You can sell us those guns - or we can /take/ them," he says, twisting the last word with emoted hate, and a twist of his fist. But his buddies - knives start appearing, switchblades, of course, catching the light of the lamp. One had a bat tucked under his jacket. "We didn't do /shit/ to the lady," he says. Although the man beside him chimes in with a "Yet," and a wicked grin.

"But if she's your partner - you're /both/ dead," he says, pointing the knife. And moving as one, as much as one can - the little pack of gangsters start circling around Spidey. And as for the dealers?

Well, they were packing up their gear. They were planning on taking off as soon as they got their goods in order, trusting on the gangsters to distract Spidey. For now.


With adrenaline pumping and the thrill of danger, Spider-Man's world slows to a snail's pace as he turns his head to the side, taking in the shift and flow of each individual, their movements, their body language, all serving to tell him secrets about their desires and their motivations. Those dealers are breaking, making a run for their vehicle and the stored guns within. The gangsters are circling him, the switchblades snapping forth in a slow speed, the click sounding lower-pitched and drawn out. He turns his head the other way, and as if it were entirely instinctive he knows what he must do.

In the reality of real time, it appears all he does is turn his head slightly and then in the next instant he is a blur of movement. One instant he's crouched, the next he's leapt up and forward, landing upon the shoulders of two of the gangsters and kicking them in the sides of the head as he flips right on past, landing in a roll in the direction of the arms dealers.

The gangsters turn, moving after him, their Chuck Taylor sneakers squeaking as they rush after the vigilante.

Bringing both his hands up, Spider-Man fires his webshooters in a steady stream into the wheel-well of the dealer's car, trying to assure to himself that the dealers aren't going anywhere…

Yet it gives those gangsters enough time to get in and on him. From her angle she might see him disappear amongst the black leather jackets. There are short /thuds/ and /thwacks/ heard as the baseball bat lifts into the air and crashes down. But she'll also see the red and blue suited man twisting to the side, turning smoothly, seeming to slip around each strike as if he were just making his way through a Manhattan 5 o'clock crowd. His leg snaps up kicking one of the men in the jaw sending him sprawling back towards Carol, even as he seems to climb up the back of another and flip past him to get some breathing room.


"Dammit," grumbles Carol, bringing up a hand to her head as the blackout leaves her coming back to reality a bit, one of her hands going to her forehead, rubbing at the side of her forehead.

Reality returns in pieces. In scents, first, believe it or not. The scent of her shampoo, of the alleyway around her. Each one like it was the first time experiencing it. The feeling of her breathing, empowering her - her muscles moving. And her blurry vision crispens in the next few moments.

Just in time for one of the gangsters to fall to the pavement near her, beaten to the street near her. Pulling her knees beneath herself, she starts pulling herself back up, her tongue brushing across suddenly massively dry lips, her breathing slow, labored. It wasn't that she /felt/ bad - even the headache, piercing as it was, seemed… a good sort of piercing.

Like a massage. Something was loosening, snapping.

One of the gangers stands up - stands up near her, and - eyes wild, he takes a swing at her. And her training kicks in. A step in and to one side so that his straight punch goes wild. She keeps ahold of his wrist, bringing her heel behind his and tugging back so as to trip him, twisting the wrist as he falls a bit. It was beyond painful for the poor man, but none of her movements were exhibiting the strength of just a few moments prior.

"What… the hell… is going on right now?!" she asks, her fuzzy memory starting to clear as she drives her heel into the back of the man's head, snapping it against the pavement. It wouldn't kill him, but it certainly takes the fight out of him.


The man's head thwoks hard against the concrete and he's out cold, his turned arm falling free of her grip. Whens he turns she'll see the situation as it unfolds. As she surveys what has passed, the situation has definitely taken a turn. Two of the gangsters are down or unconscious, and with hers that's three of them. It leaves three more menacing the wallcrawler as the two arms dealers are cursing up a storm next to their car.

"The hell is this stuff?" One of the men is poking at it in the wheel well, the stick he was using getting stuck in there as well. While the other snaps back, "Forgeddabout that junk, we gotta pop the freak!"

The trunk opens with a slam of a fist, causing the hatch to lift into the air. The two gunmen dig in, one coming up with the pistol, the other one brandishing the shotgun.

But for the moment, Spider-Man is distracted by the three gangsters. He's got one in a headlock as the other two swing at him. He ducks one punch, snaps up a kick into the side of one guy's knee that sends him down to the side with a shriek of pain. He then almost effortlessly /throws/ the guy he had a headlock on into the body of the third, sending them sprawling into the back of that car with a _wham_. He flips back, and curiously enough interposes himself between Carol and the gunmen, "Don't try it, fellas, don't want things to get all messy."


Carol breathes in, and breathes out.

A hand lifts to that messy hair of before, and she tucks it behind her ear, the focus in her eyes unreal. Adreneline, and otherwise, courses through her veins, and she tenses up. A familiar click of a weapon cocking comes from behind her, and in an instant - her hand goes to her own side - empty. The motion was trained, but she didn't carry a weapon.

Not anymore, comes the sudden memory.

Parker intersperses himself between her and the gunmen, which was fine by her. Fine, because she could pick up the switchblade of the man whose arm she nearly broke (and whose face she did), twisting around - and ducking /around/ Peter to fling the blade towards the man with the shotgun. Mostly, she was aiming for his trigger arm, and while she was absolutely deadly with those blades when she needed to be…

That felt like forever ago, at this point.

"What sort of superhero are /you/?" she asks, her words more curious than angry as she talks up towards Spiderman.


The blade slices through the air and imbeds clean in the man's forearm causing him to scream sharply. It's a perfect throw, looking to the world like one moment it's in her hand and then it just /appears/ in the man's arm as he screams and the shotgun clatters to the ground, one of the barrels firing harmlessly into the tire of the car and causing it to lurch to the ground partially after the loud /BANG/.

Spider-Man eyes her, the visor hiding his eyes giving little insight into his facial expressions but she might be able to discern it shifting upwards a touch as if his eyebrows were rising. "Apparently not as good a one as you, dang."

But his comment is interrupted by the other gunman bringing his weapon up and shouting, "I ain't goin' back! I ain't!" But then as his finger pulls the trigger a thin splat of webbing hits the barrel causing it to backfire with a loud report that makes the guy jerk back and drop the gun, a piece of metal having cut his cheek but otherwise unharmed, though he does look shell-shocked.

"Yeah, about that…" Spider-Man executes a perfect twisting flip to the side, rebounding off of the car and taking the man down to the ground with a knee pressing into his back. "I got bad news for you,"

And with that said he proceeds to bind the man to the ground with a quick spraw of webbing to the wrists and ankles. It's only once matters are handled, secured… that he slowly rises from his feet and wipes a forearm over his brow.

Turning towards her he steps her way, "Are you alright? Did they hurt you? I can get an ambulance here quick…"


Carol pauses a few moments as the throw connects.

There was a hint of satisfaction in her features - of course there shouldn't be - but there was… she wasn't helpless, hopeless, or misguided. She was still dangerous, if only in these moments - even if a hundred admin thought she wasn't. A smile tugs at the edge of her lips, suddenly pursed. A handful of moments more.

"No powers here, cowboy," she says, giving that visored face a wink.

The other gunman lifts his weapon up, and Carol throws herself to the ground, rolling away from Spiderman. "Look out!" she calls, unaware of any powers that he might have against guns. He seemed nervous about them to begin with, at least. But he seemed fast, so she trusted him.

In the middle of the roll, she comes up, breaking into a sprint. She was hoping to slide behind the dumpster - hitting the wall so fast it drives the air out of her. But didn't quite hurt as much as she thought it should. Adrenaline. Does crazy things.

But he finishes the remaining dealer in a hurry, and she peeks her head out from behind the dumpster - rising to a stand, and straightening up. She whistles low. "No, they didn't - thanks to you, no doubt," she says. She would have liked her chances should she have woken up and they were about to grope her, but…

"I am glad you stopped that situation before it got worse, but…" a beat. "Are the police coming? Do I need to call them?" she asks. She wasn't hysterical in the slightest, her focused gaze lingering on Peter directly.


"Probably a good idea," Spider-Man gestures with a thumb behind him. And now that he's stopped moving, she might actually get a good look at him. He's thin, rather graceful when he was moving, though he stands about as tall as her. He's got a light athletic build, almost like a dancer. But any hint to his facial features is hidden behind that visored mask. Yet when he smiles, she can perhaps see that mask shift a bit, "You sure you're okay?"

He asks that pointedly as he takes a step towards her but doesn't encroach on her personal space, instead he seems to be trying to visually check for cuts or contusions. He steps back and holds his hands up, "I'll go give the fuzz a ring, you've had a rough experience…" He tilts his head, "Though you seem to have handled it well. But I could swing you by a hospital just to be sure. But if you're cool, I'll go give the cops a call. You sure you're alright?"


She was hoping to avoid having to explain the blackouts.

A beat, and her jaw tightens, her eyes flickering from that visor towards his hands, bringing up a hand to kinda push her hair over her shoulder again. A groan sounds from the alley behind them. One of the goons stirring, no doubt. "It's just… I faint sometimes," she says.

Another beat. "Don't get old, I suppose," she says. Although she was nowhere near dying, 31 had seemed, at many points in her life, a milestone that she would never ever reach. A beat, and she draws a breath as if to say something more, but instead, she smiles, reaching out a hand to Spiderman's shoulder, if he allows such a touch, to give it a squeeze. "You go do that, and I'll get home, and say hello to my cat, alright?" she says.

Another moment. "And… thank you. I appreciate that you were here today," she says, giving a roguish smile to the other as she starts stepping down the alleyway.


For a moment he follows after her, "Black outs… I just… are you sure?" But if she seems set on that course of action he'll not pursue her further. Instead he pauses at the entrance to that alleyway, frowning to himself. He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck thoughtfully, but then he nods and she'll hear a /thwip/ of sound before perhaps realizing that he's no longer there.


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