The night in Gotham smelled of rotten fish mixed with cheap gasoline.
That was just the nature of a port city.
It smelled terrible.
Chen Mo crouched at the top of a rust-speckled crane at the South District docks, pulling up the mask on his face, which he had cut from an old T-shirt.
The breathability of this thing was deeply concerning; the hot air he exhaled fogged up his entire face.
He would have to find a way to cut a breathing hole in the mask later, but it couldn't be too big, or it would expose his face.
A dilemma.
He was just so broke.
Other unfortunate Spider-Men at least weren't illegal immigrants.
At least they had Aunt May.
Could Bruce Wayne change his name to May? He had wanted a relative for a very long time.
Not for the wealth of Wayne Enterprises, absolutely not.
Chen Mo stared down at the edge of the pier.
Several homeless people had their hands and feet tied behind their backs, stacked behind a shipping container like turkeys on discount at a supermarket.
A group of burly men in black suits formed a circle. The leader, whose face bore a scar stretching from his brow bone to his chin, was directing his subordinates to throw the people into the sea.
One of the homeless men, with grizzled hair and as thin as a bundle of firewood, was dropping small personal belongings all over the place. When he was lifted up, he didn't even struggle, as if he had long since grown accustomed to being treated like trash.
Chen Mo counted in his mind.
Six gunmen, one leader, two micro-submachine guns, four pistols.
A firepower configuration belonging to the level of "capable of riddling a teenager in pajamas with bullets twice over with plenty to spare."
But against Spider-Man, it was still a bit lacking.
Chen Mo took a deep breath and leapt down from the crane.
Mid-air, he raised his hand and shot a strand of web. The strand drew a crooked arc in the air, barely snagging the submachine gun in one thug's hands.
With a hard yank, the gun flew out of the man's grip, clattering onto the concrete floor and sliding into the gap between the pier and a boat.
Plop. It sank.
"Hey!"
Chen Mo landed on a shipping container, crouching and waving at the men below.
"Good evening. Those things misfire easily; they're dangerous for kids to hold. See, it fell into the sea. I'm helping you, really. The fish in the sea will thank you. They've been deficient in iron lately."
Several thugs looked up simultaneously. The scarred leader slowly turned around, the scar on his face resembling a drunken centipede sprawling across his skin under the dim dock lights.
Quarky mouth, red and blue color scheme, not Batman.
"Spider-Man?"
"It's me, your friendly neighbor." Chen Mo stood up and brushed the dust off his pajamas. "By the way, are those suits company-issued or did you buy them yourselves? If they're company-issued, I suggest you talk to your boss. This fit, this tailoring--it's clearly clearance-rack material."
Scarface didn't laugh. He stared at Chen Mo for two seconds, then lifted his chin.
"Kill him."
All gun barrels raised at the same time.
"Wait, wait, wait, wait--"
Chen Mo raised his hands above his head, his tone as sincere as if he were trying to sign them up for credit card installments.
"Everyone, calm down. Violence doesn't solve problems. Look at you all, not going home to sleep in the middle of the night, blowing in the sea breeze throwing homeless people around, what's the point? Homeless people aren't going to affect your KPIs. Why don't we sit down and chat, have a cup of coffee--"
He was answered by dense gunfire.
The sharp whistle of bullets slicing through the air made the back of Chen Mo's head tingle.
Pushing off with his toes, he launched himself from the container, flipping in mid-air.
Bullets struck the sheet metal, sending sparks flying in all directions.
"My clothes!"
Chen Mo landed on another shipping container, looked down at the two extra bullet holes in his pajamas, and felt heartbroken. "This is my only pair! You can't buy this fabric in Gotham, you know! I sewed it myself out of old curtains! Curtains! You shot through my curtains!"
He ducked sideways to avoid a burst of strafing fire, shooting a web at the crane beam overhead to swing himself out.
The wind rushed into his ears, and he continued to deliver his verbal output while swinging.
"Also, who taught you guys how to shoot? You fired so many shots and didn't hit once. Do bullets not cost money? Oh right, you're mobsters, so bullets probably really don't cost money. Never mind then. But your physics teacher would cry. Was ballistics class taught by the gym teacher?"
He swung above another shipping container, let go, landed, and crouched securely.
The sequence of movements was completely seamless.
Scarface raised his hand, and the gunfire stopped.
He stared at Chen Mo, his eyes narrowing. The scar squeezed into a single line with the movement of his eyes.
"You have a lot to say."
"Thank you, I've practiced."
Chen Mo stood up and brushed the dust off his knees. "If you want to learn, I can open a class. The first lesson is free, teaching you how to maintain your speaking speed while getting beaten up. Core strength is very important; I suggest you start with planks. Although looking at you, you probably couldn't hold a plank for ten seconds."
Scarface drew another gun from his waist.
This one was a whole size larger than the ones before, its muzzle gleaming coldly under the light.
Chen Mo took one look, and his brain automatically completed the conversion: anti-materiel level. Intended for armored vehicles.
The effect of hitting him would probably turn him directly into a red and blue abstract painting.
"I don't have time to waste words with you."
Scarface raised the muzzle.
Chen Mo didn't give him the chance to pull the trigger.
With a flick of his right hand, a web shot toward an iron barrel filled with waste motor oil on the ground.
The web wrapped around the barrel lid, and using the momentum of his swing, he yanked hard.
The iron barrel rolled sideways with a thunderous roar like a giant bowling ball, crashing toward the group of thugs who were holding their guns.
"Ouch--"
"Motherf--"
Three people were knocked over like rolling gourds, while the remaining few were splattered with black oil, slipping and sliding into a tangled mess. Their postures varied, but their uniform characteristic was that none of them could stand back up.
Chen Mo jumped into the crowd, grabbed a thug's arm, and sent him flying sideways with the momentum. The man's head accurately collided with a cargo hook hanging nearby.
Thud.
Chen Mo winced.
It seemed he used a bit too much force.
"You ran into that yourself, it has nothing to do with me. Even if your head is hard, you can't use it like that. Remember to take calcium supplements later."
The remaining two thugs scrambled up from the ground, looked at each other, and both took off at the same time.
Scrambling and crawling, one of them even lost a shoe, disappearing behind the shipping containers by hopping on one foot.
Chen Mo watched them recede, filled with deep emotion.
"They run so fast. It's a pity this speed isn't used for the Olympics. Gotham Track Team, Mafia Division. They could be hired to shoot public service announcements later, with the theme 'The Joy of Exercise'."
Bang.
A bullet flew past his ear, bringing a hot, stinging wind.
Scarface.
Holding that massive gun, the scar on his face twisted into an S-shape out of anger.
He didn't speak, pulling the trigger a second time.
Heavens, a silent villain paired with a silent Batman.
A truly dark style.
The red-and-blue-clad Chen Mo rolled to the side as the bullet blasted a crater into the ground. Cement fragments peppered his face.
"You brat, didn't your family teach you not to mind other people's business!"
Scarface roared while firing.
Chen Mo bounded up from the ground, performing a slide to hide behind a shipping container.
Bullets hit the sheet metal, making his ears ring. He shouted back while covering his ears.
"They did! They taught me to enjoy helping others! Especially helping older uncles like you who are lost on the path of crime! Also, can you give it a rest for a moment! My ears are ringing!"
He glanced around.
A crowbar lay on the ground, likely dropped by one of the thugs just now.
He scooped it up, lowered his body, and circled out from the other side of the shipping container, moving rapidly.
Scarface was still pouring firepower toward the container from earlier, completely failing to notice that Chen Mo had already crept up behind his flank.
Chen Mo stood up and flung the crowbar with a full swing.
The crowbar flipped a few times in the air, jamming precisely into the gear slots of the crane above Scarface's head.
Screech.
A sound of metal friction that made one's teeth ache.
The gears locked up, the locking mechanism of the boom failed, and the massive steel arm began to slide downward slowly.
"Look above your head! Old uncle!"
Scarface looked up, his pupils shrinking abruptly.
He threw himself to the side in a clumsy dive as the boom slammed into the ground, scraping past the soles of his shoes.
With a loud crash, the concrete floor cracked into a spiderweb pattern.
Chen Mo was just about to rush up to apply some crowd control--webbing the wrists, knee on the upper back, standard suppression moves--when suddenly, the hairs all over his body stood on end.
It wasn't a Spider-Sense.
He hadn't unlocked that awesome passive ability yet; this was a chill surging up from the base of his spine, as if he were being watched by something larger, darker, and completely unreasonable.
His peripheral vision swept toward the top of the distant Gotham Bridge.
A dark silhouette.
Standing at the highest point of the bridge tower, his cape snapping loudly in the night wind.
Motionless, like a stone statue.
Those eyes, though it was impossible to see them clearly from such a distance, Chen Mo just knew they were staring right at him.
Batman.
His vigilante colleague had seen it--had seen an underage kid in pajamas beating six adults to the point of crying for their mothers on the docks, with one even getting crushed by a crane boom.
He would understand.
After all, he was Batman.