An Incy Wincy Debut

Disclaimer: The Power Rangers belong to Saban Entertainment, Spider-Man is the property of Marvel Comics, and Zangief belongs to Capcom. No money is being made from this work.

Author's Note: This story is a rewrite of something I back in a previous version of Conquest of Evil. At the time it took place as a flashback scene taking place after Zeo back to a few weeks after the original team of Rangers had been recruited. The timeline has changed here to before Rita's release, setting up the future Power Rangers/Street Fighter encounter, Power Rangers/Spider-Man adventure set a few years after.

An Incy Wincy Debut

The ring should not have existed.

It sat bolted into the cracked concrete floor of a dockside warehouse, ropes stretched tight between steel posts, bare bulbs hanging overhead like interrogators' eyes. The air smelled of oil, sweat, and anticipation. There were no banners, no sanctioning boards, no cameras meant for polite audiences. This was not an approved arena. It was a street fighting pit that happened to have ropes, dragged in as a courtesy to one man.

A promoter in a cheap suit stepped between the ropes, microphone squealing as he cleared his throat.

"Listen up," he said, voice echoing off corrugated walls. "This is not a licensed bout. This is not professional wrestling. What you are about to see is a street fighting exhibition."

The crowd stirred, eager, dangerous.

"The ring is here because our guest prefers it that way. Structure helps keep things... contained."

A ripple of laughter ran through the locals, many of them fighters themselves, men and women who believed tonight might be their shortcut into the upcoming world tournaments.

"This is your chance," the promoter continued. "You think you can qualify? You think you belong on the world stage? Tonight you test yourself against one of the best."

He lifted a hand dramatically.

"Ranked among the top twenty fighters on the planet. A living weapon. The Red Cyclone... ZANGIEF!"

Zangief ducked through the ropes, and the mood changed instantly.

He was enormous, not just tall but wide, built like a monument carved from muscle. His chest was thick and matted with dark hair, rising and falling slowly, confidently. His arms were massive, crisscrossed with old scars, each one a quiet record of survival. A short mohawk cut a dark line along his scalp, above a heavy beard that framed a face permanently set in a scowl that could break morale before bone.

He wore red trunks cinched with a thick belt, heavy boots laced tight around tree-trunk legs, and bands of red and gold at his wrists and ankles. When he rolled his shoulders, it looked like the ring itself might flinch. When he clenched his fists, veins stood out like cables.

This was not a man meant to lose to hopefuls.

Zangief raised his arms, roaring to the crowd, and the warehouse answered him with thunder.

"And in the other corner," the promoter said, his tone turning amused, "another local who thinks tonight might be his lucky night."

Peter Parker stood just outside the ropes, mask pulled low over his face, heart hammering. He had come for money. Proof. A test. He had not come for this.

Not for that.

He slipped under the ropes and stepped into the light, suddenly very aware of how small he was. How thin. How young.

The bell rang.

Zangief charged like a freight train.

Peter did not decide to jump. He simply did. One moment his feet were on the canvas, the next he was airborne, sailing clean over Zangief's head as if gravity had taken the night off. He landed behind the giant, fingertips brushing the mat, barely feeling the impact.

The crowd gasped.

Zangief turned slowly, eyes narrowing, then smiled. A predator's smile.

"Good," he rumbled. "Let us see more."

They collided again. Zangief's hands were like iron clamps. When he caught Peter, the impact rattled through Peter's bones as he was lifted and slammed into the canvas. Pain flared bright and shocking. This was real. This hurt.

Peter rolled free, breath ragged, senses screaming warnings faster than he could think. He moved on instinct alone, rebounding off ropes, twisting through the air, using speed and momentum where Zangief relied on raw power. When Zangief hoisted him for the spinning piledriver, Peter's spider-sense shrieked, and webbing snapped out, anchoring him just long enough to slip free.

Zangief hit the mat hard, the ring shuddering beneath him.

Peter did not pause. He climbed the turnbuckle in a blur and launched himself, driving both feet into Zangief's chest. The giant went down, stunned, breath knocked from him.

The count came fast.

Three.

The bell rang again, sharp and final.

For a heartbeat, the warehouse was silent.

Then it erupted.

Zangief sat up, then stood, brushing himself off like a man rising from a training fall rather than a defeat. He laughed, deep and booming, and offered Peter a hand that could have crushed steel.

"You have spirit," Zangief said. "And courage. Remember this night."

Peter took the hand, still shaking.

Later, the story would spread. Not as an official bout. Not as a sanctioned match. But as the night a scrawny kid with new, unexplained power stepped into an illegal ring meant for street fighters and tournament hopefuls, and stood across from a titan.

Long before costumes became symbols. Long before responsibility hardened into purpose.

And with that, Spider-Man was born, under bare bulbs and roaring voices, facing a man who looked like the world itself had decided to fight back.

---

The Angel Grove Youth Center was loud in the comfortable, familiar way it always was.

Music drifted from the juice bar speakers, the clack of billiard balls echoed from the back, and teenagers clustered around tables pretending not to watch each other. Jason, Trini, Zack, Kimberly, and Billy occupied their usual spot, half-focused on homework, half on the small television mounted high in the corner.

The screen flickered from a local news logo to grainy footage of a warehouse by the docks.

"...authorities are calling it an illegal street fighting exhibition," the reporter said, her voice tight with disapproval. "Witnesses say a makeshift ring was installed for an appearance by international combat sports figure Zangief, ranked among the top twenty fighters worldwide."

Zack leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Hold up. That's Zangief. That guy's legit."

On-screen, shaky footage showed a massive bearded man roaring to a cheering crowd.

Jason frowned. "That doesn't look like a normal tournament."

"It wasn't," Billy said, adjusting his glasses. "Those kinds of unsanctioned exhibitions usually attract people hoping to qualify for professional circuits. Extremely dangerous."

The footage cut again.

"...but the real shock came from an unidentified masked participant-"

Kimberly gasped as Spider-Man flashed across the screen, leaping impossibly high over Zangief's head. "Did you see that?"

Trini tilted her head, thoughtful. "No wires. No ramps. That's not camera trickery."

The clip replayed in slow motion. Spider-Man flipped, twisted, and landed like it was nothing.

Zack whistled. "Nobody moves like that. Not even Olympic gymnasts."

Jason crossed his arms. "You think it's fake?"

Billy shook his head slowly. "If it is, it's the most advanced practical stunt work I've ever seen. The physics don't add up."

The reporter continued, talking over footage of the final moment, the giant fighter pinned, the masked teenager standing stunned.

"Authorities are investigating the identity of the masked fighter and how he performed what some are calling impossible feats..."

Kimberly smiled despite herself. "Kind of cool, though. Standing up to someone like that."

Trini nodded. "Or reckless."

From behind them came an indignant snort.

"Oh come on," Bulk said loudly, slurping his milkshake. "That's obviously fake. Nobody beats a guy like that unless it's all staged."

Skull leaned over the back of the booth, pointing at the screen. "Yeah! Those 'tricks'? Total camera nonsense. Probably springs in his shoes or something."

Zack glanced back at them. "Sure. Springs."

Bulk folded his arms. "I'm not watching this junk. Change it."

Skull nodded vigorously. "Yeah! Put the cartoons back on."

Bulk reached for the remote perched on the edge of the table, jabbing at it impatiently. His fingers closed on air.

The remote slipped, bounced once, and dropped straight into his milkshake.

There was a wet plop.

Everyone froze.

Bulk stared down at the cup, then slowly lifted his hand, now dripping pink foam and chocolate syrup. The remote sat submerged at the bottom, bubbles rising around it.

Skull's mouth fell open. "Uh... Bulk?"

The teens burst into laughter as Bulk let out a horrified yell, shaking his hand uselessly.

"My cartoons!"

END

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