Early Monday morning, the weather in New York was miserable.
The sky was gray and heavy with mist.
It made Clark, who loved sunlight, feel vaguely uncomfortable, even if it did not actually stop him from absorbing solar energy.
In the Parker family kitchen, the smell of bacon was already in the air. By the time Clark came downstairs wearing pajamas with a big S on them, Ben Parker had already finished breakfast and headed out to the Daily Bugle.
Fresh toast sat on the table, and beside it was a copy of that morning's newly printed paper.
The newspaper smelled strongly of fresh ink, but the contents were far more alarming than the scent was pleasant.
In fact, they were the kind of contents that could very well trigger a temporary unification of New York's underworld.
THE SECRET WAR FACTORIES OF HELL'S KITCHEN: WHO IS ARMING OUR STREETS?
Beneath that eye-catching headline was the byline of Daily Bugle managing editor Benjamin Franklin Parker.
Several strikingly clear photographs accompanied the article.
The first showed brand-new experimental equipment discarded by Oscorp and Hammer Industries. The second showed a warehouse in Hell's Kitchen stocked with weapons and gear more advanced than anything the police were carrying. The third traced money moving through a web of shell companies before ultimately leading back to several seemingly legitimate import-export firms in Manhattan.
The rest of the photos painted the same picture from different angles, exposing what New York's criminal underworld had become.
Clark pulled out a chair, sat down at the table, and read the article carefully.
The piece was extremely detailed. Ben had not only gotten hold of the ledger from that informant, he had also personally interviewed victims across New York who had been attacked by high-tech criminals.
The article sharply criticized the inaction of the previous police commissioner while also turning its fire toward the technology and defense corporations, accusing them of failing to control their discarded materials.
"Jameson's been on the phone all morning, pushing your father to get to the office," May said as she came over with a glass of milk. But there was obvious pride in her voice. She believed Ben had done the right thing. "He said the paper's phones and inboxes are exploding. Even the mayor's office has sent people over."
"Dad's always been like this. He hates injustice, and he raised us the same way." Clark took a sip of milk, though his mind was clearly somewhere else. "But this is definitely going to bring trouble."
"Jameson may be a loudmouthed jerk, but at heart he's still a newspaperman. He was willing to put this story on the front page and even stand up to the pressure coming from all those backers behind the scenes." May wiped down the table and gathered up Ben's dishes, then added, "Where's Peter? Why isn't he downstairs yet? He still has school today."
"He was probably up too late in the garage messing around with science stuff again. I'll go get him." Clark set the paper down and headed for the side door that connected the house to the garage.
Peter was inside wearing safety goggles, and his science brain was already in full swing. He had apparently not slept at all after getting home. Instead, he had spent the whole night using science to arm himself.
The workbench was a total mess.
Parts were everywhere.
"Peter, are you trying to dismantle the whole garage?" Clark asked, standing in the doorway.
Peter was delicately holding up a clump of white goo with a pair of tweezers.
"Look at this, Clark." Peter stretched the white substance out excitedly. It looked like some kind of glue.
Clark immediately waved him off in disgust and made it clear he should not bring that thing any closer.
It did look like glue, but the moment it hit the air, it hardened into an incredibly tough thread.
"I used... well, I synthesized this stuff," Peter said, eyes gleaming. "Its tensile strength is ten times higher than steel wire of the same thickness! Cindy can produce webbing naturally, but I can replicate it chemically. Maybe even improve on it!"
"That's a great breakthrough," Clark said. Then he looked over the mechanical components spread across the workbench. "So how are you planning to launch it? Throw it by hand?"
Peter's face fell.
He ran a hand through his already wild curls in frustration. "That's the problem. I designed a high-pressure wrist-mounted launcher, but it needs extreme precision. I salvaged some parts from the Shocker gauntlet, but our tools at home can't machine military-grade metal like this. And if I go outside and use industrial equipment, I risk exposing everything."
Clark looked at the components on the table and the schematic Peter had sketched out on scrap paper.
"How precise does it need to be?" Clark asked.
"Micron-level. Otherwise the polymer won't compress into a usable filament fast enough." Peter sighed.
Clark said nothing.
He decided to reward his brother's initiative.
He reached out with his right hand and gently picked up one of the parts between thumb and forefinger.
Then, under Peter's disbelieving stare, Clark treated it like a lump of clay and twisted it slightly between his fingers.
The piece, which should have required industrial machining, was reshaped on the spot under Clark's impossible precision.
"The margin of error shouldn't be more than 0.001 millimeters. If it doesn't fit, I can make a couple more."
Clark picked up a rag from the side and wiped off his fingers, speaking in the same calm tone someone might use to comment on the weather.
As he had gotten older, he had not gone out of his way to hide his abilities completely at home.
Usually there just had not been much reason to use them.
"Good God, Clark, are you seriously Ben and May's kid? That's not possible!" Peter stared at him with his mouth hanging open, so stunned he was beginning to question Clark's entire existence.
"Shut up and finish assembling your little toy," Clark said, smacking the back of Peter's head lightly. "Then go upstairs and shower. You smell terrible. Can't you tell? Mary Jane definitely can."
"Keep it low-key at school. Don't show off your powers."
Peter nodded quickly to show he understood and started putting things away.
"Got it. But Clark, aren't you going to school today?"
"I'm not feeling great." Clark suddenly changed expression, one hand going to his stomach in what looked like the most unconvincing grade-school fake illness performance ever. "I'm going to call in and stay home. I want to keep an eye on things today. And I'm worried about Ben."
At the same time, on the top floor of Fisk Tower.
This was one of the true centers of underground power in New York.
The sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows offered a perfect view of the city's glittering skyline.
But right now, the man who owned the tower was angry.
Wilson Fisk, the man known as Kingpin, stood in front of the glass.
His enormous body, thick and powerful as a grizzly's, was wrapped in an impeccably tailored white suit. A glass of red wine sat in his hand, and behind him on the desk lay a fresh copy of that morning's Daily Bugle.
Also in the room stood an elderly man with gray hair, thick glasses, and clothes stained with grease and machine oil.
Phineas Mason.
In the underground world, he was known as the Tinkerer.
He was the one who had taken all the discarded materials from Oscorp and Hammer Industries flowing into the black market and turned them into high-tech weapons powerful enough for gang members to stand against the NYPD.
Of course, he was more than just a mechanic doing routine jobs now.
He was one of the people at the top.
That was why he was standing here, in Fisk Tower.