Hey this is the author I've written something I think y'all would like and am curious if it will interest you. This isn't part of Ben 10xDc but a different Fan Fic I'm making called Marvels Iceberg. Feel free to read or skip this and don't worry I'm still working on this story but wouldn't mind any recommendations if y'all have any.
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Chapter 1: Nora pt.1
The sounds of titans clashing echoed like a violent symphony across the heavens, dancing amid the storm-filled sky. Each successive blow, whether it landed or was countered, brought forth the roaring of thunder and the crackling of lightning, illuminating the heavens in brief, violent flashes. The battle above remained hidden behind dark, churning clouds, as heavy raindrops cascaded down in mourning, as if the sky itself wept at the spectacle.
Rain began to fall in earnest, the droplets like silvery threads unraveling from the heavens, pulled earthward by the inescapable hand of gravity. They fell upon the rooftops and windowpanes of New York City—Brooklyn, in particular. Each impact of the liquid was punctuated with soft plops, tiny percussive beats in a city that never stopped moving.
The cityscape drowned under the relentless downpour. Buildings became soaked monoliths, water clinging to their surfaces like sweat on stone. But it wasn't just the buildings that were affected. Trees, shrubbery, and street-side flower beds glistened with moisture. Clothes clung to the backs of pedestrians, dripping steadily, even as umbrellas provided little refuge from the cold, needling rain.
Down on the glistening streets of Brooklyn, the rain, thunder, and lightning cloaked all in an atmospheric veil—masking intentions and hiding movement from both civilians and authorities alike.
"Thief! Thief!" shouted a voice, cracking through the storm's veil. It came from Frank Mire, the aging owner of a small, nondescript mini-mart tucked into a weathered corner of the borough. He stumbled out of the doorway, desperation in his voice as he looked to anyone nearby for aid. Age and weight had robbed him of any chance of catching the fleeing criminal.
Frank wore a disheveled white shirt stained from countless long nights, mostly obscured by a tired, coffee-stained apron. His blue pants sagged slightly at the waist, and he shuffled forward in scuffed brown loafers that slapped wetly against the soaked pavement.
The thief in question was a blur of anonymity, clothed entirely in black: a hoodie pulled low over his face, jeans that clung to his legs from the wet, and a pair of bright red Air Jordans squeaking against the rain-slick sidewalk. His face remained hidden beneath the hood, a shadow within shadows.
Clutched in his arms was a plastic store bag, weighed down not by groceries, but by rolls of cash—loot stolen from Frank's register. Hidden beneath his jacket was the means by which he'd ensured compliance: a small Ruger LCP handgun. However, it held only a single round—his meager funds had only covered the cost of the weapon and one bullet.
Each footfall was like stepping through shattered glass; the rain had begun to pool, refracting light and distorting his vision. The cold liquid stung his cheeks as he pressed on, ignoring the discomfort, weaving past pedestrians who barely registered his presence—many ducked beneath their umbrellas, minds occupied by the storm.
He rounded a corner, darting into a dimly lit alley, hoping the obscurity would offer sanctuary. But his fleeting relief was short-lived—faint but unmistakable, the sound of approaching sirens pierced the downpour, each wail growing louder, closer, more certain. Panic crept in, tightening around his chest.
His eyes scanned the alley—right, left, skyward, downward—searching for a lifeline. Salvation came in the form of a fire escape. Its rusted iron frame clung to the building's façade, slick with rain yet reachable. He jumped, muscles straining, and caught the lower ladder. The force of his leap echoed through the metal, reverberating in a tremor that shook collected rain loose from the rungs in a cascade of droplets.
Just as he began to climb, a commanding voice cut through the storm. "You there! Stop!"
Startled, he spared a glance downward. A figure had emerged at the mouth of the alley: a police officer, dark-skinned, eyes sharp, his NYPD badge glinting faintly beneath the streetlights in a flash of blue, gold, and black.
The thief didn't stop.
"I said stop! I will shoot!" the officer barked, raising his standard-issue sidearm, rain running down the barrel in rivulets.
Still, the thief pressed upward, convinced the cop wouldn't fire. And then, the unthinkable—bang!
A single gunshot split the air, and for one suspended moment, the thunder and lightning seemed to fall silent, as if the storm itself were holding its breath.
The thief froze. Had he been hit?
He checked his chest. No blood. No pain. Confused, he turned his head and saw smoke curling lazily from the officer's pistol—undeterred by the downpour.
Still climbing, he felt his grip falter. A strange discomfort in the rung beneath his hand made him look up. A bullet hole had split the latch holding the ladder in place.
With a metallic groan, the integrity of the structure gave way.
The second latch broke under his weight, sending the ladder crashing downward. The bottom end slammed into the concrete first, jarring the entire assembly. The thief leapt instinctively, somersaulting into a barrel roll as the ladder clanged against the building and slumped lifelessly to its side.
The officer, eyes wide, watched the acrobatics with muted admiration—but the distraction was short-lived. His training pulled his focus back toward the thief—only for the world to suddenly flip upside down.
Thwip!
The sound was sharp and foreign, a pressurized hiss like something fired through the air. A second later, the officer was yanked upward by his chest, held in place by a web of sticky white filament. His limbs flailed slightly as he twisted mid-air.
Behind him, a sheepish voice called out, "Sorry!"
The apology came from above—then, like a rolling avalanche, came the sound of massive footfalls, heavier and angrier than thunder. The ground shook.
"Come back, stupid Spider!!!" roared a voice deeper than any human's, snarling through rage and impatience.
The source emerged with terrifying force—a mountain of muscle clad in a grayish, armored suit resembling an insect's exoskeleton. The horn protruding from his head gave him a distinctly inhuman silhouette. He was Rhino—Alexi Sytsevich.
And his target: the red-and-blue blur swinging just ahead.
Spider-Man.
His webbed suit hugged his form like a second skin, the iconic red and blue colors cutting through the gloom. The bug-like lenses on his mask gleamed as he turned mid-swing, clearly aware of the bystander cop clinging to the wall. Without hesitation, he'd fired his web to pull the officer to safety, saving him from being trampled by Rhino's rampage.
While the two titans clashed, the thief took advantage of the chaos. With neither hero nor villain paying him any mind, he bolted, eyes darting left and right in search of an exit before he became collateral damage.
In his panic, he retraced his path and stumbled—quite literally—into an open sewer grate. One misstep and the ground disappeared beneath him. Gravity took control, dragging him into the abyss.
The fall wasn't far, and he landed with a grunt and a splash, needing only a few pats to shake off the impact. He sat up, disoriented—only to realize something was wrong.
The money.
He patted himself down frantically. The bag was gone.
Looking around, he found only puddles of rancid water and the foul stench of sewage. He looked up at the distant street above, where the storm raged and the grate had once been. He nearly climbed back up—until his reason, born from survival instinct, stopped him. "No… I can't. I'll get caught."The thought anchored him in place.
With no better choice, he turned and began trudging through the winding labyrinth of tunnels. The catacombs twisted and turned with little logic, and soon he lost track of his route—left, right, down… it all blurred together.
Time slipped away. Minutes became hours. Rats watched from the shadows, their beady eyes reflecting back as if sizing up a dying animal, waiting for weakness to claim him.
Crunch.
The sound brought him to a halt.
He looked down at his sneaker and lifted his foot to reveal the shattered remains of a rat—frozen solid, its body a delicate sculpture of ice, broken into crystalline shards. Red ice—blood frozen mid-spill—glittered beneath the flickering tunnel light.
Terror gripped him.
Then came realization.
There must be people down here…
Driven by desperation, he looked up and noticed the elaborate maze of piping overhead. One pipe stood out—not because of how it looked, but because of what it gave off. Steam rose from its surface, but it wasn't warm. It was cold.
Following this new lead, he moved deeper into the tunnels, where the temperature dropped with every step. His hoodie became useless. His breath fogged. He shivered uncontrollably.
Then—light.
A room emerged, hidden within the sewers. Machinery clung to the walls like parasites. At its heart, an eight-foot containment pod stood covered in frost, humming with life.
The thief, eyes wide, approached and wiped a hand across the icy glass. The moisture clung to his skin, and behind the fog… a woman. Her skin was blue, lips parted slightly in frozen stillness.
"Ahh!" he yelped, stumbling back in shock. His fall dislodged a thick cable, causing it to snap free with a flash of blue sparks. Electricity danced across the floor as a klaxon echoed through the chamber.
The pod hissed, mechanisms unlocking as steam burst outwards. Four canisters ejected from its sides with a clang, rolling into the smoke-filled room.
Drawn to one, the thief found a capsule lined with twenty palm-sized devices. Each pulsed with a dark blue glow, illuminating his face with an eerie light.
Greed overtook his fear.
He reached for one, detaching it from the rack with a mechanical click. The moment it touched his hand, he hissed—it was ice-cold, instantly numbing his fingers. He tucked it into his hoodie as alarms blared louder behind him.
He ran. Past vents, cables, and ghostly pipes. His breathing turned to mist. Then—a scream. A cry that sounded both mechanical and organic, a beast of wires and pain.
He didn't look back.
He couldn't.