CHAPTER ONE
The skylight exploded into the darkened warehouse. The jewel-stealing criminals turned to the scarlet-and-blue clad adventurer known as Spider-Man as he flipped to the ground. "Hi, guys. I hear tell you're stealing a jewel shipment. And no one invited me. Shame."
The crook nearest to Spidey pulled his Glock 9mm. Spidey ducked and batted the gun aside, then tackled the cammy-wearing punk. He webbed the criminal to the floor, then leaped to the cieling to dodge the bullets from the other criminals.
"HEY! I thought I signed up for laser tag! Paintball isn't my style!" the inhumanly agile crime-fighter laughed as he bounced off of the cieling, over the criminals heads, and shot webbing at their feet. He'd moved so fast from the cieling to behind them, the criminals had barely seen him.
"Where'd he go, Jeter?"
"I'm right behind you, guys," Spidey said calmly.
The would-be jewel thiefs spun around on instinct, but with their feet webbed to the floor, they fell straight on their faces. Spidey hesitated for a second, then said,"Your shoelaces are untied."
Wait, spider-sense, Peter thought. Feeling the danger behind him, Spider-Man swung his arm out to grab the 2-by-4 wielded by the last thief, a portly guy who looked out of place with the lanky kids. Spidey webbed the board to the guy's hands, and then proceeded to smack him with the board.
"Why ya keep hittin' yourself? Why ya keep hittin' yourself? Why ya keep hittin' yourself?" Spidey chanted as he whacked the punk with the board. After about five hits, the pudgy man fell to his knees, where the crime-fighter webbed him in place.
"Four would-be criminals in 30 seconds? And I thought I'd lost my touch when I got married." Spidey found the phone in the office, called the police, then exited the warehouse the way he came in. Fifteen minutes later, Peter Parker crawled into bed with his wife, Mary Jane. They snuggled there until morning broke.
2:18 a.m., just outside Times Square, New York City.
"Oh, Jesus.... I think that's his liver."
The "his" in question was a murder victim. He'd been beaten severely before being torn open. Apparently, with bare hands. The lady who chose to call out to her Lord was Tiffany Belmont, Homicide Division, NYPD. She had never seen anything like this, ever. Somehow, without even opening a door or making his presence known in any way, someone with superhuman strength got into the apartment, pummeled this man into a coma, and then grabbed his stomach with both hands and opened him up like a Christmas present.
The tall black man wearing a brown leather jacket was her partner, Larry Grist. He looked into the man's wallet and announced, "Tyler Joseph Marlons, age... 46.... looks like he worked for a Hightower Department Store...."
"God.... I don't even see any evidence, do you? I mean, you know, other than.... that."
"Nope," Grist said.
They both looked at the sigil drawn in the victim's blood on the wall. It was a circle with four lines crisscrossing at the top and bottom.
"A cult of some kind...?" suggested Tiffany.
"No," Grist said disgustedly. He sounded like he was choking back a gag reaction as much as Tiffany was.
"Why not?" she asked. "That sigil looks like religious symbolism to me..." She was careful not to look at it. Everytime she did, she wanted to open up the window, lean her head out, and throw up.
"This guy was completely non-existent in terms of assassination potential. He's a middle-aged black man, happily married with two kids, does some side work at the homeless shelter, and works at a department store. Can you think of a single reason why someone would do this.... unless they didn't particularly care who their victim was?"
"Then what's your theory?"
"I've got two. One, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, found something out about a supervillain or something, and was targeted."
"Sounds maybe a little farfetched..."
"Only other possibility is it was racially targeted. The only thing out of place with this guy was that he was black. A splinter group of the KKK, or something. That could be the group's insignia."
"I don't know. Usually, when it's a racially motivated crime, they make that clear." They started out of the apartment. Neither of them wanted to look back at the body.
"Maybe that's what that sigil is. But since that's the only evidence we have to go on, we should start there tomorrow."
They were almost out of the building when Grist said,"Oh, dammit." Tiffany looked at him, puzzled. "The wife and kids are out of town. We're gonna have to tell them. That'll be a pleasant experience."
They had dinner at a small diner together, looking over the file they had compiled from interviews with the neighbors, bank account numbers, and the like. They discussed possible motives: money (he wasn't exactly the image of wealth), race (which Larry had finally decided was too improbable for a multiracial city; there were hundreds of higher profile blacks to choose), and personal vendetta (all of his neighbors described him as one of the nicest people they'd met). Nothing made sense to this murder at all. Nothing.
Four years ago.
For the first time in five months, Marc Schwimmer put away the Goth-style clothes and put on a nice, casual dress shirt.
Five months ago, Marc had gone into a horrid little depressive episode. And like all disaffected white kids, Marc decided to dress all in black and chains at the beginning of his Freshman school year. He started to become a little more disconnected every day. He started listening to metal music. He started to grow further and further apart from his friends. He even considered suicide a couple of times.
Which was when he met Alicia Garrison. She ended up sitting next to him sixth period Algebra 1 when she transferred in from MidTown High. She was deceptively beautiful; while she wouldn't qualify as a supermodel, she had a charm to her face. She looked like she could be your best friend. And she was very personable. She connected with people so well that she actually got under the shell that Marc had been hiding in the past months, just by talking to him for a few days. And Schwimmer finally asked her out on a date, three weeks after she moved into the school. She agreed.
Of course, he, in his Gothed-out look, really wasn't her type. He started dressing in the nicer clothes that had been gathering dust in his closet. Marilyn Manson came out of the CD player, and Natalie Imbruglia and the Wallflowers went in. It felt good to have a change of pace for once.
More than that, he just felt good. He was going on his first date. But something felt wrong, somehow. Something he couldn't put his finger on.
As he walked out, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Oh, that's what's weird, he thought. I'm smiling.
CHAPTER TWO
I never should have taken this assignment, thought Peter as he looked throught the viewfinder of his camera. He couldn't bring himself to actually take a picture. He looked at the blood splattered on the wall.... and the sigil drawn with painstaking care on the wall.
J. Jonah Jameson, publisher of the Daily Bugle, wanted pictures of this crime scene that the police were blocking off to the press, family, friends, and anyone else not involved in the investigation. He asked Peter to do it, since his finesse in getting photos of Spider-Man in action meant that he could probably sneak into a crime scene. And Peter, who wanted a little quick cash so that he and MJ could catch a movie before Mary Jane's payday, agreed. But he couldn't bring himself to actually take pictures of this horrible sight. He didn't have the right.
Mary Jane was comforting as always when he explained why they couldn't go to the movies. But he didn't feel comforted. He hadn't even realized until that day that the human body had that much blood in it. All he felt was sick. He wanted to go out as Spider-Man and follow up on it, but he had Mary Jane convinced that he was through being the webslinger.
After a few hours of slumming, Mary Jane finally asked if he was angry at her.
"No, I'm just... after that whole incident, I can't even make heads or tails of things."
"Well, please, Peter, stop worrying about it. There's a new Spider-Man out there. There're police. You gave up being a superhero, remember? You have to promise me that you won't go out there again and risk you life. Someone else can do that now." Peter lied a response.
At 10 that night, Peter snuck out, leaving his wife and aunt, thinking he was still asleep. He had to find out what that was. He wouldn't be able to sleep until he at least had some lead on this.
The desk sergeant pulling graveyard shift was absent-mindedly typing on his computer. He looked like he was working, but he was actually just playing DOOM. He heard a voice ask, "Who's investigating that murder at the apartment just outside Times Square?"
Annoying reporters, the sergeant thought. "I'm sorry, that's classified information."
"But I really need it, bad," the visitor whined.
The cop turned to the visitor. "Look, I just told you that you're not allowe--" He stopped when he saw Spider-Man hanging from the cieling by a webline.
"Look, Chief Quimby, I really ain't in the mood. So if you just told me where the detectives are, you'd make my life a whole bunch easier."
"Ummm.... second floor. Third door on the... uhhh... left," the officer managed to stammer.
Twenty seconds later, Spider-Man was tapping on the door of the office. Standing on the cieling. After a second, a medium-heighth dirty blonde woman opened the door. She jumped when she saw the vigilante standing on the cieling.
"Wow, and that's how people usually react when my mask is OFF."
"So you were at the crime scene?" Tiffany Belmont asked her unnerving house guest.
"Yeah. Noticed you guys had gotten rid of the body, but not the blood stains. Horrid."
Tiffany handed the mystery man his cup of coffee. "Actually, that wasn't the worst of it. The body was torn open, too." Spider-Man spit his coffee out on reflex.
"Tell me about it. I hate this town. The first body turned my partner into a recluse, and the second one he couldn't even bear to look at."
The masked visitor, who's mask was pulled up to just under the bridge of his nose to allow coffe drinking, looked at her with a shocked look. "Second body?"
"Um, we found another body. Exact opposite of the first guy. Fourteen year-old, caucasian daughter of a high-paid industrialist. Every reason in the world to kill her. Money, power, vendetta.... name it. She was coming out of the shower when something grabbed her from behind and imbedded her head into the shower wall."
Spider-Man looked suddenly very grim. "And, uh, there was nothing connecting the victims at all?"
"Well," Tiffany sighed,"this victim was located outside our normal precinct, except that a sigil was found at the sight of this corp... person, too."
"Do you know what the sigils mean?" Spider-Man said depressedly.
"Nope. But I had someone sketch them," Tiffany told the crime-fighter, handing him two sheets of paper.
"Mind if I keep these?" Spider-Man asked.
"Sure. Do you want more coffee?" Tiffany asked, turning towards the coffee pot. When she turned back around, Spider-Man was gone out the window.
"Is this what Comissioner Gordon feels like?" she wondered aloud.
Larry Grist laid awake beside his wife. The victims just turned themselves over and over in his mind. He tried to sort out why someone would kill an innocent man trying as hard as he could to support his family, or a popular middle-school girl, who seemed to be the most unspoiled rich kid on the planet. And the sigils.... certainly religious, but it seemed to him like the killer was taking a perverse pleasure mysteriously breaking into impossible places, excersising feats of superhuman strength on human bodies, writing those horrible sigils on the walls, and then disappearing. Could it be some sort of sexual predator... literally? Except that the bodies hadn't been sexually used in any way, shape, or form. So it would have to be religious. It was the only thing that Larry could think of: some sort of religious zealot killing people for minor sins. Of course, that still didn't explain why the victims were located twelve miles apart.
As an officer in homicide for nine years, Grist had only once encountered an evil on the scale of this. Mutilation, mangling, and absolute dismantling of bodies had only been done as horribly and disgustingly as in the "Maximum Carnage" affair, but at least then, he knew who the enemy was, and psychosis in a few superhumans was a simple answer to the destruction.
Larry Grist could only think about the murders and didn't sleep at all that night.
Three years ago.
"Nice car," Alicia said.
"Thanks. My parents are paying half the expenses until I graduate," Marc replied.
The car was a 1996 Velociraptor, put out by Overture Motor Company. God knew how they got started in the car business, but this was the third year they'd been producing cars, and Marc had heard that they were getting help financing from Osborne Industries or something.
"We're going to a posh little restaurant on 5th, and then I'm taking you out to this beautiful little outlook I found outside the city," Marc said enthusiastically. Alicia pulled him close.
"Happy anniversary, M."
"Happy anniversary to you, Sweetcheeks." They both giggled at that.
The dinner was fabulous. They ordered the crab for two. The bill was astronomical, but Marc didn't care. He was in love. Desperately.
After the dinner, they went to the hill just outside New York. It was quite a drive, but they were immortal, they were invincible, they had more than all the time in the world.
It had been one year ago that day that Marc had really come out of his depression. He went from a solemn, serious kid who seemed as morbid as the undead, to the energetic, outspoken guy he'd been before his inexplicable hormone shift (but then, what hormone shift in a teenager is explainable?). And as far as Marc Schwimmer was concerned, it was all thanks to her.
And that night, on their one year anniversary of dating, they sat under the stars under a warm blanket and simply enjoyed being together.
CHAPTER THREE
"I'm sorry Spider-Man, but none of our records show anything like this," Jarvis said.
Two more bodies were found on the third day, one in the Bronx, one on the far side of Harlem. One was an elderly black woman who'd been unceremoniously tossed out of her sixth story window. The other was a Japanese man who was on a business trip from Stark-Fujikawa's Tokyo branch, who was crushed with his hotel room's entertainment center. Once again, nothing in common with any of the other victims, with the exception that both the Stark-Fujikawa exec and the fourteen-year-old were connected to big business. And no witnesses.
Spider-Man, desperate to find some lead to the killer, checked out the Daily Bugle's morgue, the library, and the Internet trying to find any information at all on the sigils that were found with each victim. He couldn't find anything.
So, while he was "on assignment" for the Bugle, he went as Spider-Man to the Avengers Mansion. Unfortunately, they were out, so Spider-Man used his reserve Avenger status to get into the computer. He and Jarvis entered all of the sigils into the computer's search program, but it didn't come up with anything.
"It's okay Jarvis. I really didn't expect anything to show up, anyway. Call me a pessimist."
Spider-Man turned to leave, when Jarvis said, "Good luck finding the killer."
"Thanks, Jarv. Take care."
The X-Men didn't have anything on their files (although Professor Xavier said that their records had been messed up since Bastion totalled the original Cerebro unit). Peter also went to the Fantastic Four, but Reed Richards didn't have the answer for once in his life.
Spider-Man finally had success when he talked to Doctor Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts.
"I think I may have seen sigils like these before," the Doctor said. "But it would have been years ago. I'll have to look through these ancient texts for some clue."
"How long will that take, Doc?" Spidey asked, a little nervously. Doctor Strange's sanctum sanctorum always unnerved the costumed adventurer. The little light there usually was cast long, depressed shadows across the floor and ceiling. There was always the faint smell of insense, too.
"It shouldn't take but an hour with the Eye of Agamotto to assist me."
Spider-Man knew he'd be home well before he told Mary Jane he would, but he said,"Can we try and make it snappy? I don't think I set my recorder for Springer." He didn't think he sounded as upbeat as he tried to be, but Strange gave a soft, bemused smile anyway.
Forty-two minutes later, Doctor Strange pulled a book out of the uppermost shelves of his book-cases. "This is it," the sorcerer said. Spider-Man looked up at the red-cloaked man who hovered in midair.
"The sigils are the alphabet of an ancient race called the Racksinites. They were a race that diverged from humanity when mankind was making caves into homes. They branched off because they were the first group to use sorcery, and it eventually became a part of their being."
"So it's these Racksinites that are behind the killing?"
"No," Strange replied, "the Racksinites are essentially demons, requiring the life force and souls of sentient beings to feed. They didn't kill like this. I don't even know if they still exist; their personal war against humanity had always been fought in the shadows before all sightings of them died out in 1487 a.d."
Spider-Man crawled up the wall to Strange. "So if it's not them, then what's with the sigils?"
"My guess is that the killer is human."
"Why?"
"These first four markings spell out a name. M-A-R-C."
Two years and three months ago.
"Everybody, run!"
Third period Chem Study was interrupted by a student dropping a somewhat volitile concoction onto the floor. The chemical erupted into flame on the hardwood desk, and the teacher called for an evacuation immediately. One of the students pulled a fire alarm as he exited the room. Withing moments, firefighters would be there to rescue civilians.
Which would be too late for Marc Schwimmer.
Schwimmer was in the supply closet, getting container of citric acid when the door accidentally closed behind him. Unfortunately, the door locked whenever it closed, a safety feature designed to keep kids from stealing chemicals during the night so they could set the school on fire.
And when the fire alarm went off, Marc realized he was in trouble. He went to the door and tried to open it. No good. Knowing that he was trapped while there was a fire in the building, he started screaming and banging at the door. No good. His best shot was to try and kick the door open. And after six tries, he did manage to.
But he still couldn't get out. He was surrounded by flames hot enough to ignite the tile of the floor. Flames that were quickly closing in on the Chem Study supply closet.
"Oh, God, help!! Help!!! Why didn't someone get me out of here? Oh, God..."
Marc backed into the supply closet, fell to his knees, and started whimpering. He wanted a superhero here. He wanted to be able to get out of here, but he was only just now hearing the sirens of the fire trucks. Most of all, he wanted to hug Alicia Garrison one more time....
The last image in his mind before everything became a cacaphone of red and black was kissing Alicia, that night under the stars.
The flame ignited explosive chemicals that weren't even supposed to be kept on the bottom shelf. It would later be found that both teacher and student error contributed, but the result was the same: the supply closet exploded. No normal person should have survived.
Marc awoke in the Barnes Memorial Hospital with several burn scars. The nurse present said that he had had third degree burns over his entire body, and that his recovery was nothing short of miraculous.
The first person Marc called was Alicia. He told her to come out there as soon as she could.