As the dust settled and the last remnants of battle faded into the background, Spider-Man and Alamo made their way back toward the police barricade. The air was still thick with the acrid scent of melted metal and burnt flesh, and the hum of distant sirens steadily grew louder.

Spider-Man walked ahead, dragging the unconscious, heavily webbed Rhino across the shattered pavement. The massive brute groaned weakly, but he was out cold, his grotesque, battered form limp in the webbing.

Behind him, Alamo strode forward at a measured pace, casually holding Rhino’s severed arm by its thick wrist. Blood still dripped from the stump, forming a dark, uneven trail on the pavement. The brutal sight earned a mix of shocked expressions from the officers near the barricade. A few of them instinctively recoiled, some placing their hands near their holsters, others muttering to themselves.

Alamo barely noticed. His focus was on the dismembered limb still twitching in his grip.

With a small exhale, he raised his other hand, fingers glowing with that signature blue plasma. The energy concentrated in his palm, coalescing into a thin, controlled beam. Slowly, he pressed his searing-hot fingertips against the raw, exposed flesh where the arm had been severed. The smell of burnt meat filled the air as the flesh sizzled and seared shut.

Spider-Man turned to see what he was doing and immediately winced.

"Yeah, uh—nope. Not watching that." He shook his head and looked away, muttering, "I did not need to add ‘witness impromptu battlefield surgery’ to my trauma playlist tonight."

As the cauterization finished, Alamo flexed his fingers and shook off the residual heat. The stump was now a scorched, permanently sealed wound—no blood, no mess. Just a clean, irreversible ending.

Spider-Man exhaled, glancing at Alamo as they neared the police barricade. “You know he won’t get his arm back.”

Alamo rolled his shoulders. “Yep. That’s the idea.”

Spidey stopped walking for a moment, narrowing his lenses. "What? Why?"

Duncan shot him a dry look. “Well, y’play stupid games, y’get stupid prizes. I reckon losin’ an arm’s not as bad as losin’ yer life.”

Spidey groaned, rubbing his temples. "Dude, don’t make a habit of tearing people’s arms off."

Alamo raised a brow. “Why?”

"Because it’s terrible press!" Spidey threw his hands up. "People get scared of you, dude. You ever hear of branding? You need good PR if you’re gonna be a hero."

Duncan let out a quiet sigh. "Here we go…"

But Spidey wasn’t done. His head tilted toward the towering billboard above them—an enormous Daily Bugle front page from yesterday. The headline was in massive, bold white letters:

“IS SPIDER-MAN A MENACE?!”

A smaller subheading below read: “Masked vigilante causes city-wide destruction! Who pays for the damage?”

Even he had been getting bad press for just doing his job—and now? Duncan was this close to getting painted as something far worse.

Spidey’s tone was more serious now. "Alamo, you’re a mutant, right?"

Alamo’s jaw tensed slightly. “What’s it to ya?”

"Listen," Spidey sighed, "people are already on edge when it comes to mutants. If you keep doing this violent stuff, it’s only gonna get worse. The bad press catches up to you."

Alamo’s eyes flickered up toward the billboard, but his face remained unreadable.

Spider-Man folded his arms. "Seriously. And what am I supposed to do? Just throw this guy back in jail so he can break out again?" He gestured at Rhino’s unconscious, webbed-up form. "You do realize, Spidey, that even federal prisons can’t contain these folks? Max security included."

"I know," Spidey admitted, "but just because the system doesn’t work doesn’t mean you gotta throw yourself in the mud trying to vigilante it up. New York’s got plenty of people like that already."

Alamo shot him a knowing look. "Ya’re talkin’ ‘bout—"

"The Punisher," Spidey confirmed. "Real gory stuff. Real violence. That guy doesn’t pull any punches." His voice was quiet now. "And that scares people off, dude. New York doesn’t need a Punisher. And I’m pretty sure Texas doesn’t need a mutant Punisher either."

There was a long silence between them as the red-and-blue hero let his words sink in.

Alamo exhaled slowly. "I understand the no killin’… but this’ll prevent this bastard from ever doin’ shit like this again. Call it reducin’ the incentives."

Spidey’s gaze lingered on him for a beat before shaking his head. "Bro, I know. But this? It’s just gonna escalate. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that violence only leads to more violence. You keep kneecapping people, ripping arms off, you’re just gonna make more enemies. The cycle doesn’t end that way."

Alamo’s expression was unreadable for a moment. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod. "I see. I’ll take it into consideration goin’ forward."

"That’s all I ask."

They reached the police barricade just as the NYPD sergeant approached. The old Italian-American cop looked tired as hell but relieved to see the crisis had ended.

"Hey, good job, Spidey. Good job, Midnight Cowboy."

Duncan exhaled. "It’s The Alamo."

The sergeant squinted. "Like the landmark?"

"Yup. Like the Alamo in San Antone."

The NYPD sergeant waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever, kid. Just glad this guy’s not givin’ us more trouble. Coulda clipped him for good, but hey—one gets what one gets." He clapped both of them on the back. "Don’t worry, boss, my family thanks you for not lettin’ me die out there. Not really what I’d call a pleasant retirement surprise."

Spidey gave a little salute. "Just doin’ what I can, Sarge."

"Keep up the good job, Spidey."

Then, the sergeant turned to Duncan. "And you too, cowboy. But maybe try not leavin’ so many loose limbs next time, huh? The paperwork on this is gonna be hell."

Duncan gave a small smirk. "Reckon that’s warranted."

Spidey stretched his arms, already dreading what came next. "Tomorrow’s just gonna be J.J. Jameson chewing me out for this whole mess… and you too, probably."

"Wouldn’t be the first time a banker got chewed out by a media tycoon," Duncan quipped.

"Yeah, yeah, let’s get outta here." Spidey cracked his neck. "Now, how about dinner? Like I said, I need to bring my lady some takeout."

Duncan tilted his head. "I don’t need to eat."

Spidey blinked. "Oh, uh—my bad then, I just figured—"

Duncan raised a hand. "Hey, hey. Don’t worry. It’s fine. I’ll go have supper with ya."

Spidey froze. "Supper? Bro, this is 2025, not 1975."

Duncan sighed. "Fine. I’ll go have dinner with ya."

"Good. Katz’s then."

And with that, the two heroes disappeared into the neon-lit city, leaving the wreckage of the battle behind.

The ride to Katz’s Delicatessen was a seamless blend of old-school Texas grit and New York spectacle. Alamo soared above the streets, his plasma thrusters humming with controlled precision, while Spider-Man swung ahead, weaving between skyscrapers with effortless grace. Below them, the city was still awake—horns blaring, neon lights flickering, pedestrians craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the unlikely duo moving across the night sky.

Alamo kept his speed steady, matching Spidey’s lead, the scent of the city changing as they crossed neighborhoods—the tang of exhaust fumes giving way to the smoky, peppered aroma of pastrami carried on the breeze as they neared their destination.

Not long after, they landed in front of Katz’s, the legendary Jewish deli on the corner of Ludlow and East Houston. The iconic yellow-lit sign stood proudly against the night, buzzing faintly with the comforting hum of old-school neon. The giant red letters spelled out Katz’s Delicatessen, their glow reflecting off the rain-slicked pavement. The interior lighting spilled onto the sidewalk, revealing a bustling late-night crowd inside. Even at this hour, people were packed at the counters, their voices blending into the symphony of clattering plates, sizzling grills, and the constant rhythmic chop-chop of knives against wooden cutting boards.

Alamo looked up at the old-school marquee with its bold lettering. "Well… this ain’t Whataburger."

Spidey flipped down next to him, adjusting his gloves. "No, it’s not."

Duncan exhaled, glancing at the window where he could already see thick, steaming piles of pastrami being sliced behind the counter. "What do ya recommend?"

"Pastrami. Always. It’s legendary for a reason." Spidey gestured toward the window, where the carvers were skillfully piling towering stacks of pinkish-red meat onto rye bread, smearing it with thick mustard. "Also, pastrami’s made outta brisket, so you’re practically in Texas."

Duncan smirked. "Less truthful words couldn’t have been muttered."

"Don’t go busting balls, Lone Star."

"Alright, my bad."

With that, they pushed through the glass doors, greeted immediately by a rush of warmth and the unmistakable aroma of smoked meat, freshly baked bread, and sharp mustard. The restaurant was just as Alamo had expected—walls adorned with decades of memorabilia, framed photos of celebrities who had dined here, and the unmistakable old-school diner-style lighting casting a golden glow over the packed tables.

Customers sat elbow-to-elbow at the long cafeteria-style tables, some hunched over plates stacked with thick-cut sandwiches, while others eagerly dipped crispy potato latkes into tiny plastic cups of sour cream. The air buzzed with a mix of Yiddish, English, and Spanish, blending into a uniquely New York atmosphere.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Behind the counter, one of the veteran slicers—an older man with thick arms, a white apron stained with meat juices, and a well-worn Brooklyn accent—looked up from his cutting board.

"Spidey!" he called out, a grin spreading across his weathered face.

"Hey there, Anthony!" Spidey waved.

Anthony wiped his hands on his apron and leaned over the counter. "You want the usual, kid?"

"Yeah, let’s go with three pastrami sandwiches, one to-go." Spidey shot a thumb toward Alamo. "Got a new guy with me tonight."

"Special Spider Discount," Anthony winked, already reaching for a brick-sized slab of pastrami, its outer layer dark and crusted from hours of slow-smoking.

"Thanks, Tony!" Spidey said, giving a small salute.

Duncan reached for his pocket. "I’ll pay."

Spidey waved him off. "Nah, don’t worry, man."

Duncan narrowed his eyes and pulled out a sleek black credit card. "Nope. I ain’t lettin’ ya pay."

Anthony raised an eyebrow as he saw the card. "Ooooh, look at Mr. Fancy Pants over here!"

Spidey whistled. "Damn, that’s the fancy kind. What, you part of the Illuminati?"

Duncan scoffed, sliding the card across the counter. "This? Comes with workin’ in a bank. I ain’t nearly as truly rich as most users of this kinda card. Perks, one must say. 'Cept now I’m penniless—unemployed."

Spidey nodded. "Oh, that sucks, man. Been there, done that."

Duncan signed the receipt. "Ain’t all bad. Gives me time to pick up new hobbies—like rippin’ the arms off supervillains."

"See? Bad branding, bro!" Spidey shook his head as they grabbed their trays and found a seat. "Maybe Stark needs a guy like you, huh?"

Duncan smirked. "I’ll remember to fly to the Avengers’ Tower and go beg fer a job."

They sat down at a booth by the window, the light from the street filtering in over their plates. Duncan took a moment to take in the scene—New York in its purest form. The tables were packed with a melting pot of people: cops still in uniform, old Jewish men sipping matzo ball soup, college kids scarfing down sandwiches between beers, and a few tourists looking overwhelmed by the sheer size of their portions.

Duncan lifted his sandwich, eyeing the mountain of pastrami spilling out between the two halves of rye bread. The mustard glistened under the warm lights.

Across from him, Spidey simply tilted his head back slightly and rolled his sandwich into his mouth, taking careful bites while keeping his mask mostly on.

Duncan raised a brow. "So… ya just gonna keep yer mask on?"

Spidey swallowed. "Yep. Look, I can just roll and eat it without showing much of my face."

Duncan exhaled. "Right… okay."

They ate in relative silence for a few moments, the sounds of the restaurant filling the air. The chatter, the laughter, the occasional clank of plates and cutlery against the sturdy wooden tables.

Then, Spidey broke the quiet. "So... ahem... why are you doin’ this superhero thing, exactly?"

Duncan paused mid-bite, setting his sandwich down. "Well… mostly ‘cause I got no other choice. The FoH indirectly took my job when they tried to kill me… then later my family. So I reckon… well, maybe this is what I’m made for."

Spidey nodded. "You did well tonight. Took that Rhino beatdown like a champ."

"Much appreciated, Spidey."

"Your folks… did they make it?" Spidey’s voice was quieter now.

Duncan swallowed, looking out the window. "Yup. Made sure of it."

"That’s good, man. That’s real good."

A long pause. Then, Duncan glanced back at him. "How do yer folks feel ‘bout this whole superhero thing?"

Spidey didn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of his sandwich wrapper.

Finally, after a beat—

"I don’t know." His voice was softer now. "I never met them…"

"I’m sorry."

Duncan’s voice was low, steady, but there was weight behind it. His Texan drawl carried a rare sincerity, a directness that cut through the ambient noise. Across from him, Spider-Man sat hunched slightly, arms folded on the table, fingers idly tapping against the edge. He exhaled, the lenses on his mask narrowing slightly as he shrugged.

"Don’t worry, I have my aunt and uncle… well, had."

There was a shift in the air, subtle but there. Duncan didn’t speak right away, his eyes studying the masked hero in front of him. Outside, the faint sound of a distant siren wove through the city’s soundscape, blending with the occasional honk of a cab horn.

"Ya lost both?"

Spidey shook his head slightly.

"Ya lost both?"

Spidey shook his head slightly.

"Oh, no… I lost my aunt."

Duncan nodded, his fingers lightly drumming against the tabletop. The deli’s fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a gentle glow over their table.

The food hadn’t arrived yet.

They waited.

"I’m sorry, Spidey."

This time, Spidey didn’t respond immediately. His fingers stopped their idle tapping, his shoulders rising and falling with a measured breath. Outside, a group of night owls walked past the window, their laughter momentarily cutting through the subdued atmosphere inside.

"A robber got her when she was doing groceries… and y’know."

His voice was quiet, almost matter-of-fact, but there was a tension behind it, an old wound buried beneath layers of time and responsibility.

Duncan tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes flickering with understanding.

"How did yer Uncle—"

Spidey leaned back, one hand resting on the edge of the table. His masked gaze drifted toward the far end of the deli, where an old bald gentleman sat alone at a corner booth, reading a freshly printed copy of The New York Bulletin. The pages crinkled faintly as he turned them, his fingers stained slightly with ink. The old man looked at Spider-Man and he nodded and smiled, Spidey waved back. The whole restaurant had their eyes fixed on him.

The bold headline on the front page caught Duncan’s attention.

“SPIDER-MAN: A HERO NEW YORK HATES TO LOVE BUT DESPERATELY NEEDS”

Underneath the title, the name of the head editor stood out in clean, professional type:

Benjamin Parker.

Spidey smirked, Alamo thought it was because of the headline, little did he know it was because of the editor.

"He was depressed for a while, it was his way of mourning, I guess… But then he focused on his work, I suppose."

Duncan exhaled slightly, watching as Spidey’s gaze lingered on the newspaper for just a second longer before turning back to him.

"And what is his work?"

A beat passed. Then, with the same subtle smirk, Spidey answered.

"Well, let’s say he’s in a good business."

Duncan glanced back toward the old man, noting the way his eyes moved with sharp precision as he scanned the page, the occasional sip of coffee from a white ceramic cup the only break in his concentration.

"Well, I’ll take yer word fer it."

The conversation shifted again, as naturally as the city outside never stopping, never pausing.

"What about your powers—you can fly, shoot plasma…?"

Duncan leaned back, stretching his shoulders slightly, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight. His fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of his empty glass, condensation from the ice leaving faint trails of water.

"I can suck energy too. Or overload it."

Spidey’s head tilted slightly, intrigue sparking behind the masked lenses.

"Suck energy? So, if a being is made out of energy, you could just… suck their energy? And they’d die? From your touch?"

Duncan considered it for a moment, his jaw tightening slightly. Outside, a city bus rolled by, its headlights flashing briefly through the large front windows of the deli.

"Yes, if I choose so."

There was no hesitation in his answer. Just a simple, stark fact.

Spidey exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly in his seat.

"Like Rogue."

Duncan furrowed his brow slightly, more lost in thought then he was bothered by the comparison.

"What? No. I’m not sure I’m like her… I reckon she doesn’t have much of a choice. If she touches ya… ya go cold. Regardless of what she thinks."

Spidey nodded, the faintest trace of understanding beneath his usual lightheartedness.

"That kick you took from Rhino? That should’ve cracked a rib or two. Healing factor?"

Duncan smirked slightly, stretching his fingers out in front of him.

"Close to invulnerability, ‘cause of plasma cellular shieldin’."

Spidey let out an impressed whistle, leaning back.

"That’s fire, dude. Nice one."

Duncan tipped his battered hat.

"Thank ya kindly."

At that moment, the sound of a heavy tray sliding across the counter cut through their conversation. The waiter, an older man with salt-and-pepper stubble, set down their plates with a practiced ease. The aroma hit instantly—the smoky, peppery scent of freshly sliced pastrami stacked thick between warm rye bread, golden and slightly crisp on the edges. Two cold glass bottles of Coca-Cola clinked slightly as they were placed beside the plates, condensation beading on the surface.

For a moment, they just looked at the food.

Duncan reached forward, picking up the sandwich with both hands, its weight substantial. He took a deliberate bite, the flavors exploding in his mouth—the saltiness of the meat, the spice of the crust, the tang of the mustard.

He chewed, swallowed, then let out a satisfied exhale.

"Not bad… Coulda been Dr. Pepper, but I’ll live."

Spidey chuckled, reaching for his own sandwich.

The night continued, the city thrived, and for a moment—just a moment—two heroes sat in an old deli, sharing a meal, sharing words, and simply existing in the heartbeat of New York.

The air inside Katz’s had settled into a comfortable hum—conversations blending together, the rhythmic slicing of meat from behind the counter, and the occasional clink of glasses meeting the tables. Outside, the neon lights reflected off damp pavement, turning the street into a shifting mirage of reds, blues, and yellows.

Duncan leaned back against the booth, his fingers wrapped around the base of his sweating Coca-Cola bottle, condensation beading under his grip. Across from him, Spider-Man took another careful bite of his pastrami sandwich, rolling it slightly under his mask to avoid showing too much of his face. It was an odd sight—New York’s masked vigilante, crouched in a booth at one of the most famous delis in the city, eating like some kid sneaking a snack in class.

Duncan smirked slightly at the sight before Spidey spoke.

"Best place in town. And talking about towns—what will you do when you go back to yours? Unless you’re staying here."

Duncan exhaled through his nose, thinking for a moment. The sandwich was good—great even—but it wasn’t home.

"Erm... No, I’m due to Dallas when we wrap it up here."

Spidey made an exaggerated motion of wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. "Phew, okay, okay. You do have somewhere to be. Thought maybe we had another ‘mysterious lone drifter hero’ on our hands."

Duncan smirked. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

Spidey took another bite, swallowing before speaking. "And then? I heard Texas has its own heroes. The Rangers. That a possibility for you?"

Duncan shook his head. "Nope. Not a fan of teams that much. And, like you said, I’m a mutant."

Spidey cocked his head slightly. "So… X—"

"Nope." Duncan cut him off quickly, taking another sip of his Coke. "Different mission. I ain’t wearin’ an X."

Spidey shrugged. "Maybe you should keep your mind open."

Duncan let out a quiet chuckle, resting his arm against the table. "I’ll think ‘bout it. But most likely no."

Spidey’s masked eyes narrowed slightly. "Why? Why be against them?"

Duncan exhaled, shifting slightly in his seat. "‘Cause I’m a man of freedom. The X-Men are ‘bout collectives, ‘bout mutants and mutant this, mutant that. I do care ‘bout mutants—but I also care ‘bout humans. Freedom’s a universal concept. It shouldn’t be limited to just one group."

Spidey leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. "So you’re like what? Captain Texas?"

Duncan smirked, shaking his head. "I can’t be like Cap. He’s… well, he’s Captain America. That is a bar no one is qualified to reach"

Spidey took a sip of his Coke, nodding slightly. "And what does freedom mean to you?"

Duncan’s fingers traced the condensation on his bottle. "The right to not be bothered by others. And the state. Especially the state."

Spidey whistled lightly. "That’s some libertarian stuff I’m hearing."

"Yup, pretty much."

"I don’t think I agree."

Duncan raised a brow. "Why not?"

Spidey tapped the side of his drink with his index finger. "Maybe there’s more than just being left alone."

Duncan exhaled. "I reckon there is. But… that’s why I’m fightin’ fer people’s right to choose to be left alone if they wish."

Spidey’s lenses narrowed slightly. "That seems a bit vague."

Duncan chuckled. "On the contrary, it’s pretty explicit… ya have rights. Liberty, life, property. That’s what I’m here to defend."

Spidey tilted his head slightly. "Aren’t we all?"

"Well, in a way."

Spidey took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before speaking again. "You don’t have to make it necessarily political."

Duncan shook his head. "It ain’t ‘bout politics, it’s ‘bout, y’know... doin’ right from wrong."

Spidey exhaled, leaning forward slightly. "And what is that right now?"

Duncan’s fingers tightened slightly around his Coke. "I’m goin’ after Graydon Creed. The Carraro Company. Bolivar Trask... and of course, Friends of Humanity."

Spidey’s posture straightened slightly. "Bolivar Trask? The CEO?"

"Yup..."

"So you’re like working with the X-Men but not for them?"

Duncan shook his head. "I haven’t personally talked with any of ‘em yet. I’d rather do this alone."

Spidey sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Dude, maybe help them."

Duncan shrugged. "I handled ‘em some info. I’m sure they’ll be fine on their own."

"Maybe. But maybe it’s faster if you help them."

Before Duncan could answer, a sudden vibration on the table caught their attention. Spidey’s phone, placed face-down, buzzed against the smooth laminate surface. He flipped it over, the screen flashing MJ.

Spidey let it ring for a moment before sighing and turning it down, quickly typing a text back.

"Well," Spidey exhaled, grabbing his to-go sandwich. "My girl is calling me. I gotta go home now. Pleasure to meet you Alamo"

Duncan smirked. "Pleasure was mine, Spidey. And ya can call me Duncan."

Spidey hesitated for a moment before reaching into his pocket and handing over his phone. "Here—put your number in. In case I ever need a pal to share Katz again."

Duncan took the phone, quickly typing his number in before sliding it back. "If ya ever find yerself in a pickle, call me."

Spidey nodded, slipping the phone back into his suit. He adjusted his mask slightly, preparing to leave, before turning back one last time.

"Hey, remember—you’re not alone. Sometimes you gotta let people help you. And sometimes… you gotta help them too. Don’t be a stranger now."

Duncan gave him a small nod, lifting his Coke slightly in acknowledgment.

"See ya, Spidey."

With that, Spider-Man gave a casual two-fingered salute before stepping outside, his silhouette briefly outlined by the neon glow of Katz’s sign. A moment later, he shot a web-line into the night and disappeared into the skyline, leaving Duncan alone with the half-empty deli, the hum of conversations, and the fading scent of pastrami in the air.

Duncan leaned back, exhaling slowly, before taking another sip of his Coke.

New York sure was something else.