Brief Respite #2

Despair gripped me—a tightening vice of dread. 'Trapped. Utterly trapped and fucked!'

Instinct surged within me, a primal urge for survival. I pivoted and bolted, legs pumping with adrenaline-fueled urgency. Bullets whizzed past, snapping like angry insects in pursuit.

An alley materialized ahead, a narrow corridor of shadows and short reprieve, more or less a heaven in my eyes. Without hesitation, I dove into its murky depths, the acrid stench of decay mingling with the distant wail of sirens. Lungs burning, every nerve taut with anticipation, I sprinted deeper into the urban labyrinth.

The alley's decaying walls and urban grime pressed in on me as I sprinted through the narrow corridor, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The familiar sounds of New York faded into the background, replaced by the echoing footsteps of my relentless pursuers.

Despair tightened around my chest like a vice as my lungs began to burn and my chest tightened, each step a desperate gambit against impending doom.

Drained of adrenaline, my legs failed me and I fell face first into the grimy floor, my face submerged into a small buddle of murky water. I coughed out the foul liquid from my mouth as I tried to stand up. However, much to my despair, I realized that I had only enough energy to turn my body around for a better view of the gangsters closing in on me as the prize for my effort.

They soon closed the distance and just as I thought I'd reached the end of the line, a blur of red and blue streaked across the night sky, landing gracefully between me and the gangsters. It was Spider-Man, or a man dressed like it at least.

He stood there, a striking figure with a surprisingly well-crafted mask, effortlessly blocking the path of the armed thugs. If I survive this somehow, I'll write to the head of casting for the MCU and beg him to cast this guy as Spiderman.

"Evening, gents," the Spider-Man cosplayer quipped, his voice dripping with casual confidence befitting his costume. "Looks like you picked the wrong night to commit crime..."

Before the gangsters could react, Spider-Man launched himself into action. With astonishing agility, he disarmed and neutralized them, webbing their weapons and binding them to the ground in a matter of seconds. The alley was filled with the sound of punches, grunts, and the thwip of Spider-Man's webs.

The realization soon hit me like a semi-truck. The man in front of me wasn't pretending or cosplaying. He was the real thing, the real Spider-Man. I'm a wanted criminal. I'm in Marvel, and I just got my ass saved by Spider-Man.

I stood there, frozen, unable to fully process the rapid turn of events. One moment, I was running for my life; the next, my attackers were incapacitated, struggling futilely against the webs that held them fast.

Spider-Man turned to me, his lenses narrowing as he took in my disheveled appearance and the briefcase I was clutching. "You okay, buddy? You look like you've had a rough night."

I nodded, struggling to catch my breath. "Yeah, I'm... I'm okay. Thanks to you."

He cocked his head, curiosity evident in his stance. "What's your name?"

"Vito," I said, the name sounding more natural than my own.

He nodded as he approached me, and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, Vito. You mind if I ask why were these guys after you?"

I hesitated, the weight of Vito's chaotic life pressing down on me. Still, I took his hand after a moment and allowed him to help me back to my feet. "It's a long story. A long and boring story..."

Spider-Man nodded, his demeanor shifting from playful to serious. "Look, I... I usually ask a bit more questions, but you don't sound like that bad of a guy, and there's a maniac running around in a Rhino suit juggling cars downtown..." He trailed off giving me a meaningful look. "I'll give you a break this once, so consider this a sign from god or whatever, and you know, don't do crime..."

Without giving me a chance to reply, he extended his hand, his webs shooting into a building opposite the alleyway and swinging away.

I watched him leave before looking down at my body, bruised and stained by dirt and water mixing with blood. "I need to get out of here..." I muttered, casting a last glance at the thugs encased in web fluid before limbing away, not knowing where to go or what to do.

...

I huddled in the shadow of an unfinished building, the skeletal framework of the construction site looming over me like a giant's ribcage. The concrete floor was cold and rough beneath me, but it was a welcome change from the streets. I leaned back against a steel beam, letting out a long, weary sigh. My mind buzzed with the absurdity of my situation.

'How the hell did I end up here?' I thought, rubbing my temples. 'Stuck in the body of Vito, a lowlife thug in the Marvel Universe, hunted by gangsters and cops alike. What kind of twisted luck is this?'

I glanced around the construction site, the silence only broken by the occasional distant sound of a car horn or a siren. The city never truly slept, but up here, it felt like a different world—one where I could catch my breath and think. Not that thinking did much good. Every scenario I ran through in my head ended in disaster.

'Trapped in a body doomed to die,' I mused bitterly. 'What are the odds? Out of all the people, I had to land in Vito's skin. This guy's life is a goddamn death sentence.'

I clenched my fists, feeling a surge of anger and frustration. It wasn't fair. I'd been thrown into this mess without any warning or reason. No guidance, no instruction manual, just a whole lot of bad luck. I wanted to scream, to punch something, to vent my rage at the universe for screwing me over so royally. But I knew it wouldn't change a thing.

"Fuck!" I yelled, my voice echoing through the hollow structure. "What am I supposed to do now?"

I slumped back against the beam, my outburst leaving me feeling even more drained. Running was all I'd done since waking up as Vito, but where could I go? I couldn't go back to the gang; double-crossing them had sealed that door shut. Even if I miraculously convinced another gang to take me in, the Manfredi and Owlsey syndicates would never stop hunting me.

I was more trouble than I was worth, and any self-respecting mobster would realize who I was sooner rather than later and hand me over to Manfredi themselves.

The police were an even worse option. They'd shoot me on sight, no questions asked. The original Vito learned the hard way after several patrol officers tried to kill him on sight when they caught him trying to sneak out of the city.

He had more lives than a cat and was as reckless as a gambler on a winning streak, but even Vito understood going to the police was a bad idea after that.

Detective Vasquez had offered the original vito a sliver of hope once. When she had him pinned down in some motel room, she'd promised protection if he surrendered. But he, and by extension, I, knew better. The best I could hope for was a jail cell if I turned myself in, and even then, the mobs would find a way to get to me. No place was safe.

Crossing the gangs had been a mistake, one that set off a chain reaction of violence and retribution. It wasn't my mistake, but now I was Vito, and I had to reckon with the consequences of his actions whether I liked it or not.

I sighed heavily, running a hand through my hair in frustration. "How the hell am I supposed to fix this mess?" I muttered to the empty air. The city below hummed with its own rhythm, indifferent to my plight.

...

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