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INSOMNIAC GAMES, MARVEL'S SPIDER-MAN (2018)
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I. SIREN SONG
IT STARTS WITH SIRENS, the unofficial anthem of New York City. An oft-sung song, the citizens knew it all too well—the siren's screech like a melody, the accompanying police-radio static like percussion, the subsequent skid of rubber tire against road like a bow to strings. A condition, it's something that habituates, something you eventually get used to because you have to—there is no medication, no alternative, no other way to manage something so chronic, so relentless.
So you must deal with it in the only way you can: indifference. The sirens and the screams and the silence that should come after but doesn't because it never, ever stops is something you have to get used to. It is a cycle and it is cruel but it is life and you, unfortunately, have to live it. You are not a hero, and all you will ever be able to do is summon your sympathies and then move on with your life. There will always be sirens. There will always be screams.
You are not a hero. There is nothing you can do.
Only watch.
New York knows the rules. Today, the sirens shriek through the neighbourhood of Hell's Kitchen, and New York only watches as two dozen police cars pump through the streets to reach the beating heart of the city's criminal underworld: Fisk Tower. It's no secret what Wilson Fisk does behind closed doors, but now, thanks to a well-hidden informant situated deep behind enemy lines, the police had enough evidence to put him in the Raft. How many crimes had he committed over the years? Trafficking, murder, bribery—the list went on and on, and so would the Kingpin's jail sentence.
Like blood to a wound, New York congregates behind the barricades put up around Fisk Tower. Though he had polished his public image to perfection, playing the part of philanthropist and protector well, Wilson Fisk was still in his heart an animal. And in his head, he was still the apex predator. He would not go down without a fight—he would not go gently, and certainly not without raining down hell on the city he saw to have betrayed him. Collateral damage was a certainty, and yet, the city crowded around the epicentre of his corruption and cruelty, waiting with equal parts excitement and fear as the police force readied themselves to lead the charge and send Wilson Fisk's empire crumbling into nothing like all those who had come before.
Part of it was that desire, that anticipation for the inevitable catharsis that would come in tandem with the sight of Fisk leaving his tower in handcuffs and humiliation.
And part of it was to see if Spider-Man would join in on the fun.
Spider-Man—the city's favourite superhero. Forget the Fantastic Four, the Avengers, the Saviours, the whoever else who wanted to wear a mask and cape and call themselves a hero. It was Spider-Man everyone loved, or at least, Spider-Man that everyone could count on. (Funnily enough, the Avengers didn't actually spend a lot of time avenging. Awfully convenient.) Say what you want about the guy—his entire gimmick, the "spider" thing, was weird, or his quips were kind of lame—but he was always there to save the day. And when he was there, when he came swinging in in all his webbed glory, regardless of your stance on masked heroes, you couldn't pretend he wasn't a wonder to watch. Fluid in every possible way, he was a marvel of movement, a creature that lived to defy the laws of physics. The origins of his abilities remained unknown to the public, and the theory that he was some kind of arachnid-alien still ran rampant in conspiracy circles—but, alien or otherwise, Spider-Man was amazing, and even the sirens seemed to quieten as he swung onto the scene.
