Marvel Template System:Spectrum

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An enameled and scaled sink.

Old tiles, some of which had fungus in some places.

A rusty faucet with equally rusty water running from it.

Fortunately, the water was not always orange in color. It was worth it just to open the water beforehand, thus letting the most "juice" through.

Although...

Even if the water was always orange, Chris wouldn't complain.

After all, he had long since gotten used to it....

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With an annoyed exhale, Chris set about improving his appearance. Well, started...

He had no experience, no special products. No creams, not even a regular hairdresser.

All Chris could do was smooth his hair with a damp hand, hoping for the best, and spritz himself with Axe, the most available - that is, cheap - "cologne".

But all of these circumstances hardly make Chris's life any harder.

Because no one around him cares.

After all, Chris has lived his entire conscious life in Harlem, one of the most famous and iconic neighborhoods in New York City.

Harlem, located on the north side of Manhattan, much like Hell's Kitchen - the west side of Manhattan - was one of the poorest and most "crime-ridden" neighborhoods in the city.

It's about history and ethnic and cultural differences.

After all, Harlem is historically the "blackest" neighborhood in New York City.

And that's not to say Chris or any random sociologist is racist. Although, the likes of those in Harlem are better left unsaid, of course.

It's about history.

As strange as it sounds, for a significant portion of history, America has been really, well.... racist. No "buts."

A system of slavery whose foundation was more brutal than a similar system in Rome a dozen centuries earlier.

And the treatment of "blacks", as absurd as it sounds, persisted until the end of the twentieth century. No, slavery was abolished long ago, but racial segregation existed and flourished.

Of course, for today's generation it will seem horrifying that only fifty years ago the most ordinary buses had special seats for "blacks" and "whites".

And there were a huge, huge number of such trifles.

Naturally, such attitudes would play their part. Some form of "isolation" forced African-Americans to bond with each other. That's why the ghettos came into existence.

And historically, for a large number of reasons, the "black" population had a much lower income than other Americans. And it was because of society.

Yeah, that sounds incredibly racist. But it's a fact. But it's not about genetics, it's about history.

And Harlem was a product of its time and society.

A kind of "ghetto" - although, nowadays, the neighborhood can hardly be called that - with a predominantly "black" population.

Which makes the fact that Chris is completely white a little bit funny.

Yes, he's lived in Harlem since he was born, and he's never been out of New York.

You could say he absorbed street culture from the moment he was born, but he was completely white.

Brown eyes and a lock of black, disheveled hair. Many would call Chris handsome, though he'd always thought his looks were mediocre.

If he dresses up a bit, no one around him would ever guess that he's a native of Harlem.

Even back in the orphanage, in his early childhood, many joked about it.

"Ha, you must've been dropped off here by mistake!" — a dark-skinned boy pointed at Chris and exaggeratedly widened his eyes.

"But we're in an orphanage..." — Chris glanced around uncertainly. — "We were all dropped off here..."

"True..." — The children around him slumped.

Yeah...

As a kid, his sense of humor wasn't great. And honestly, even at nineteen, the situation hadn't changed much.

- Well, - Chris scrutinized his appearance critically. - Let's go...

After packing a small bag with a change of clothes just in case, Chris left his tiny one-room apartment, grabbing his keys.

The hallway was filthy and hadn't been cleaned, simply because no one cared. The building itself was a half-collapsed three-story structure.

But despite the not-so-great neighborhood and the far-from-ideal condition of the building, the place was completely packed.

After all, housing in New York isn't great.

And the fact that Chris could afford to rent an apartment was nothing short of a miracle. Or rather, he had help. And he still gets help to this day.

Locking the door with his key, Chris straightened his shoulders and headed out. Truth be told, the door to his apartment was so flimsy that a single kick would be enough to break it down. But there was nothing worth stealing in Chris's place, and locking the door was more of a symbolic gesture. In Harlem, any self-respecting neighbor would make a point of walking in and taking something if they saw the door wide open.

By the way, about the neighbors...

Staggering from side to side, something—or rather, someone—emerged from the stairwell.

"Hey, Jessica," Chris said, trying somewhat awkwardly to make conversation with his neighbor.

Jessica Jones was a pretty well-known figure in Harlem, though it was clear she couldn't care less about any kind of reputation.

She had a striking appearance. Slim and attractive, with shoulder-length black hair. She usually wore a black leather jacket, jeans, and tall combat boots. You could say "rocker chick" was a pretty accurate description of her.

---

Though Chris would have added another epithet...

"Fucking alcoholic..."

He had heard plenty of rumors about Jessica Jones. Some said this woman was a total nightmare, supposedly capable of launching any suitor into the far reaches of space. He'd also heard about her work—a part-time private investigator.

But personally, to Chris, as Jessica's neighbor, she always came across as an alcoholic. At any given moment, you could spot her with either a bottle or her favorite flask, which always contained some kind of strong liquor.

Even now, she bore all the signs of a not-so-sober night.

Staggering from side to side, one hand on the wall for support and the other either nursing her hangover or continuing the party, Jessica was making her way to her office-apartment.

"Hey, Jessica," Chris tried to greet her again, as his previous attempt had either been heard and ignored or... No, Jessica had definitely ignored him on purpose.

"Fuck off... BLERGH..."

Chris jumped back in alarm as Jessica almost "greeted" him in her own special way. That is, she nearly puked all over him from head to toe...

Watching Jessica empty the contents of her stomach right at the door of another neighbor, Chris found himself asking the same question once again.

Why the hell do you even bother with her?

And the answer was pretty simple.

Chris had no friends. None at all. And Jessica, despite her unhealthy obsession with alcohol, at least seemed to work sometimes. The other alternatives were far worse...

"Alright," Chris muttered, forcing a half-smile as he headed off to work. "Good luck, Jessica..."

"BLERGH..."

Maybe he should just say screw it and forget about her, this Jessica?...

*****

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Chris had no prospects or connections. After all, he wasn't just an orphan, but he... had a less-than-career-advantageous reference.

At the age of eighteen, he'd been thrown out on the street. With no money, with barely a finished high school education...

Chris became a total bum in no time. Because if he had subsidies and health insurance before he was eighteen, then after that...

Yes...

But there was an old man Chris knew, who, you could say, lay with him in the same "hospital".

Mr. Kramer, a former military man, and now a sixty-year-old retiree of Irish descent, just like him, was a native of Harlem. Incidentally, he was also white. All in all, some similarities existed between them.

During his life he had managed to save a small amount of money, which he had invested in several apartments and a small store.

So, finding himself in complete hopelessness, Chris accidentally met Mr. Kramer, who - which is not common in Harlem - decided to help the poor guy out of the goodness of his heart.

He got Chris a job in his store and rented a token rent until Chris got back on his feet.

And for that Chris was truly grateful.

- Welcome... э...

Standing behind the cash register, Chris was greatly surprised to encounter a completely familiar face. A face that had missed him only an hour ago.

Giving him a faintly annoyed glance, Jessica Jones went to get a beer, immediately disappearing behind the numerous counters. The encounter did not, in fact, bear the hallmarks of a remarkable coincidence. After all, the store was literally ten meters from the house of residence. No wonder, both the apartment and the store belonged to the same person.

In the store, by the way, there was only one Chris, acting as a janitor, cashier, and bagger. The job was certainly not the most difficult, but it was quite tedious. Even for Mr. Kramer's not the biggest store....

The opening of the door forced Chris out of his thoughts.

- Wel..come

Chris couldn't keep a smile on his face for the second time in a row. After all, if Jessica was only a slight surprise, the next visitors carried with them not the kindest of intentions.

There were two visitors. Both with beards, both in their late forties with not the most pleasant faces.

Having lived all his conscious life in Harlem, a place where numerous gangs congregated, Chris had learned to distinguish between representatives of anti-gang activity.

And the new actors were part of an Irish gang.

Of course, most of the gangs in Harlem carried a "black" coloring, but there were others. These representatives of the underworld were just from such....

---

"Where's Kramer?" The older of the two men didn't bother with pleasantries and went straight to the only employee around. That is, Chris. 

"Uh…" Chris shrugged awkwardly, trying to calm his racing heart. He'd always been afraid of getting mixed up with gangs. "I don't know…" 

The man didn't like the answer, so he frowned and… 

"Hey, leprechaun," the Irishmen turned around in surprise, spotting an irritated Jessica holding a beer bottle. "Quit blocking the damn register." 

The second man, who was likely playing the role of a bodyguard, didn't take kindly to Jessica's "comment." 

"Bitch…" he hissed angrily. "Do you even know who the hell we are?" 

"You look like two Connor McGregors," Jessica smirked sarcastically. "If he was broke, ugly, and reeked of cheap whiskey from a mile away…" 

"YOU BITCH!" The man, unable to handle the mockery, reached into his jacket pocket. But the leader immediately raised his hand, stopping his subordinate. 

"Jessica Jones," the leader of the duo nodded slowly. "I've heard about you…" 

"Cool," Jessica said nonchalantly. "Now get the hell away from the register…" 

"You really don't wanna mess with *this* kind of business, do you?" the lead Irishman said with emphasis. 

And Jessica...

Backed away.

With a dismissive snort, the girl opened the bottle with a flick of her finger and began to pour her hangover.

Yes, by "these" cases, the Irishman in charge meant gangbangs. And no matter how fearless Jessica was, she didn't want to involve herself in those problems.

- Thank you," he said suddenly, and turned to the awkwardly writhing Chris. - So you don't know where Kramer is?

- No," Chris shook his head instantly. - He gave me the store and left....

The leader exhaled, dissipating the tension that had built up.

- All right," he squared his shoulders and reached for the cash register. reached for the cash register.

- What are you doing? - Chris was stunned at his insolence.

- I'm taking our money," the Irishman shrugged, pulling out the cash.

- This is Mr. Kramer's money! - Unexpectedly angry, despite his fear, Chris said.

- Hey," Jessica turned to Chris in a low voice. It was the first time she had ever spoken to him. And the occasion was not a happy one. - Just let them go...

- That's right, kid," smiled the satisfied Irishman, counting the money and heading for the exit. - You'll be safer!....

The door closed behind the bandits, bringing with it a deafening silence.

A dumbfounded Chris watched as he had just been robbed in the most brazen manner.

And Jessica, uncharacteristically tactful, waited for Chris to come to his senses.

- That's... - Chris stared lost at the empty cash register. - It's Mr. Kramer's money...

- He'll understand," Jessica shrugged. - You don't have to fight those idiots.

- I let him down," Chris muttered quietly. - After everything he's done for me...

- This is Harlem," Jessica tried to comfort him. It's amazing really. - It's normal.

- No," Chris replied hotly. - It's not normal.

Mr. Kramer was practically the only person who reached out to him.

Yes, racketeering, robbery, and other crimes were part and parcel of Harlem, but...

Chris didn't want to let down his only, uh. friend, you might say.

- I'll pay that money back," Chris said firmly, reaching under the counter.

- Are you even out of your mind? - Jessica gaped at his actions. - Do you have any idea... YOUR FUCKING ASS...!

Jessica's expressive reaction came from behind the huge shotgun that Chris pulled out. which he immediately loaded with two pellets.

 Any self-respecting businessman in Harlem is required to have a gun. Mr. Kramer had forbidden Chris to touch it, but, uh. Chris didn't want to let his benefactor down.

- What the hell are you doing?!

- I'm just returning the money," Chris replied, sweating nervously. - They'll... give it back, I suppose?

- It's the Irish Mafia, not a common junkie with a knife! - Jessica, sobered by the events, tried to talk him out of it. - I can see why they put you in the loony bin!

- How... - Chris looked at Jessica in a daze. - How do you know?!

- I'm a detective," Jessica snorted.

- What's my name?

- Names aren't necessary for my job," Jessica gave a nonchalant face. - But by all means, you can tell me your name.....

Jessica's attempt to distract the mentally ill was obvious. But their first attempt at communication still encouraged Chris a little.

- Christopher Wallace.

- Pfft... - Sneered Jessica into a fist. - And the middle name?

Chris smiled.

- Christopher George Lator Wallace," Chris introduced himself a little proudly.

- Ha ha ha... - Jessica laughed. - You were named after fucking Biggie Smalls!

Biggie Smooth, or Notorious B.I.G., was a landmark rapper of the nineties, representing the voice of the streets of the entire East Coast. Born in Harlem, by the way, he was a native New Yorker. For this city, the importance of Biggie Smalls is greater than Michael Jackson, greater than any other hip-hop artist.

That's why Jessica laughed. The white guy, ironic as it may sound, was named after Harlem's most epochal black rapper.

- Well, it's nice to meet you, Jessica," Chris smiled, gripping his gun more comfortably. - I'm outta here!

- Wait!" Jessica watched in shock as Chris disappeared into the dark alley where the two Irish mobsters had gone. - Biggie Smalls had been shot.

Once inside the empty store, Jessica looked around lost.

At the empty cash register.

To the place where a second ago stood a timid guy with the name of a black gangsta rapper....

- Holy shit! - With one gulp of the bottle, Jessica snapped after Chris.

Jessica may have been a sarcastic alcoholic, but she wanted to sleep at night. And if Chris got shot...

A half-dead conscience would keep her awake.

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*****

- Well... - The Irishman in charge pressed himself right up against the barrel of the gun with an ironic smile. - Are you going to shoot?

The shotgun shook with hands nervous with fear.

The confident thug.

And Chris, completely unsure of what exactly to do.

It was easy to catch up with the Irish couple. They were talking in good spirits and didn't think of running away. It was as if they knew that no one would be able to bring them to justice. Except Chris had an opinion about that.

Well...

He thought so until the Irishmen looked at him with their angry, tense gaze.

And that's when Chris swam.

He realized that not only had he never shot anyone, he didn't even know how to fight! His name always cheered up the surrounding natives of Harlem, so there were almost no conflicts. And Chris always tried to stay out of the way, like some kind of bystander.

But now he's here.

His whole body trembling, unable to pull the trigger, unable to speak!

And the Irishman, sensing his fear and insecurity, immediately began to push.

- When you take a gun in your hands, always be ready to pull the trigger," the gangster smiled wickedly. - They're not made for a wimp like you ...

- I-I-I-I-I... - The stuttering caused by the horror attack did not add to Chris's points in any way. - I'm n-not a s-squishy-y.

- So shoot him," the Irishman provoked him in the most insolent manner, and he made no attempt to take the gun away. And so he stood, close to the gun. - "Shoot and show your 'confidence'...."

- Я... - Chris lowered the muzzle down lost, endlessly disappointed in himself. Of course, having taken the gun from under the counter he hadn't intended to shoot, but it seemed to him as if the threat would be enough.

I guess Jessica was right.

They're gangsters and he's a nobody....

BOOM!

The sound of a single gunshot seemed to fill the entire space. It was like a hammer hitting the perception of all the actors.

And it wasn't Christopher Wallace who fired the shot...

- Johnny! - The Irishman bounced away from the young man's stomach wound. - You fucking shot him?!

- 'Boss,' his bodyguard frowned perplexedly. - He was pointing a gun at you, wasn't he? Didn't he...

- He wouldn't have had the guts to shoot you! - The Irishman shook his head irritably, looking at Christopher moaning in pain. - They would have broken his legs, that's all! And now we've got a dead body.....

- Well, let's get out of here," shook the other man's head.

They left in a hurry, leaving Chris sprawled on the ground.

- Jesus fucking Christ, Virgin Mary! It's only been two minutes.

Jessica leaned over Chris, who was losing his strength.

The wound looked nasty. The bullet had hit him in the stomach, most likely the liver, and pierced through. Chris hadn't just lost an organ, he was bleeding profusely.

- I'll call an ambulance, Biggie Smalls! - Nervously Jessica pulled out her phone, with her other hand trying to contain the bleeding. The act was rather pointless, as the blood was almost gushing. - You just hang in there.

A lot of people are lucky to get hit by a bullet. Perhaps some people have heard stories of bullets stopping on an icon or some symbolic accessory. Or stories about how a bullet went through the brain but missed the most important parts of the head.

But Chris wasn't so lucky.

Blood loss and organ damage took Chris Wallace's life at the fastest rate possible.

And maybe in another universe that's how the poor kid from Harlem ended his life. In a random alley at the whim of a random marginalized person.....

But this isn't that universe. For.

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [11/12]

And Chris, ignoring Jessica's dumbfounded look, sighed greedily with a full chest.

- What the fuck... - Jessica muttered, slowly pulling her hand away from the wound. Or rather, from what it was, because...

There was no wound on her stomach.

Only Jessica's bloody clothes and hands testified to Chris's mortal wound.

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