Chapter One: New York Is Getting Weirder All the Time
The last thing Carla Nueken was expecting to happen at a scientific presentation was an explosive attack. Given recent events, maybe she should have known better.
"I am proud to announce that SicCo's has recently made a giant breakthrough in laser weapon technology..." the fat scientist at the podium bellowed. The podium was at the head of the auditorium in the famous Colonial Rotunda. All around the small oval room, life-sized bronze statues of the Founding Fathers were spaced between imposing marble columns. Serious faces of revered historical figures frowned down at the pool of brown flip chairs filled with military personnel and congressional advisers. SicCo's research and development crew was seated on folding chairs behind the podium, looking nervous. If Dr. Murphy, sweating under the lights on stage, could manage to sell the idea for the new hand-held laser blasters to the skeptical VIP's he was addressing, his company could end up with grant money, prestige, and rising stock values. After the recent disasters affecting the military's R&D program, Washington representatives were ready to listen.
SicCo's leading technical research scientist, Carla Nueken, sitting on stage next to the podium dressed in a business suit rather than her usual white lab coat, tried not to hold her breath while Dr. Murphy went on with his speech, persuasively pointing out military benefits to be had by supporting their program with generous grants.
Two weeks ago, Carla knew that SicCo wouldn't have had a chance. General Slocum had been the head of the committee in charge of experimental research grants, and he was well known for his partiality for Quest. And the older grants had all gone to OsCorp, a company big enough to fund biomolecular research as well as develop military hardware like that glider they were rumored to have perfected. But Slocum was dead, OsCorp's performance enhancers had failed, and the glider was gone. Too bad about that. Carla itched to get her hands on the glider's anti-grav apparatus. A hopeless techie since childhood, she was happy only when she was taking a device apart, figuring out how it worked, and making it better. If the military awarded this contract to SicCo, maybe the lab could afford to buy another grav-scope...
"SicCo is ready—no, eager!—to step into the void left by the unfortunate events at OsCorp and Quest," Murphy continued forcefully. He wasn't much of a scientist, Carla mused, but he was a great salesman. His impressive bulk made him look like a high-tech Santa Claus, trustworthy and kind. And although his statement that SicCo was ready to go was pushing it—the las-blast was far from developed—their product beat the heck out of a missing glider and a bombed-out exoskeleton.
Dwarfed by the high-arched ceilings and posed in front of the benevolent figures of Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson, Murphy fielded questions from the members of the select audience, all of whom had the kind of security clearances and political power that made the real decisions for America's military future. Carla, trying to figure out whether or not the project would fly, was so wrapped up in the on-going sales pitch that she missed the first ominous rumble. It wasn't until the second blast hit the domed building that she looked up, jaw falling in shock.
Repeated heavy thuds shook the Rotunda, sending plaster cascading downward. Men and women in uniform stood up, recognizing the sound of small-arm missiles and wondering if someone should take command of the situation; the civilians present stood up aimlessly, uncertain what to do. A few seconds later, a large section of reinforced concrete broke free from the ceiling and crashed down through the center of the auditorium. Panic took over, people running and screaming, some trying to get out of the building, others looking for cover, a few yelling for calm or shouting orders. An older man wearing a pin-stripped suit cowered beside the chunk of concrete that had come within inches of killing him, sobbing harshly. Over the ruckus, a menacing laugh rang out.
Carla couldn't believe her eyes as a silver one-man glider, consisting of nothing but two bat-shaped, powerful wings, slid skillfully through the new hole in the roof and swooped across the auditorium's airspace. A man covered by a suit made of some strange, gleaming green alloy crouched on top of the wings, controlling the glider's dips and swerves with unnatural grace. His face was hidden by a long mask that seemed designed less to protect his face than to terrify on-lookers; it had large yellow eyepieces and a stylized fanged mouth. Carla stood in motionless shock as the nightmare attacker flew toward the stage, still laughing maniacally, and watched a burst of light flare under the glider's wings without comprehension, until the missile hit the podium and the stage erupted into flames.
Thrown sideways, Carla hit the floor hard but didn't feel it. She struggled to her hands and knees, a battered middle-aged woman whose gray-streaked hair was hanging in her face and whose business suit was now covered in plaster dust. Her hands were scraped and bloody and there was a cut over her eye, but miraculously those were the only injuries Carla Nueken would sustain that night. The other scientists who had been on stage would not be so lucky. Carla stared in shock at what remained of Dr. Murphy. The weighty bronze statue of Benjamin Franklin had fallen across his chest, an image so grotesque that Carla's mind refused to take it in.
"You'll pay, you'll all pay! Successful human testing!" the green monster shrieked insanely as another missile hit the stage, followed by the deafening rat-a-tat of machine-gun fire. The research and development crew, who had come to the presentation hoping to secure their jobs for the next decade, ran screaming, unsuccessfully, for their lives. Carla never moved, bullets hitting the broken remains of the stage on either side of her. When the glider looped back through the ragged hole in the ceiling, trailing smoke, it seemed to leave behind the horrible, cackling laugh that would fill her nightmares for years to come.
Later, Police Commissioner Ramos stood amidst the rubble of the historic Colonial Rotunda, watching as the only survivor from the group of people who had been on stage was loaded into an ambulance. He knew the woman would be questioned once the doctors declared it safe—right now she was suffering from shock. Other dazed survivors from the audience were being rounded up, names listed. But the command had already come down from the FBI: the federal agency would be taking over investigation of this incident, which was clearly related to the attacks on Quest and OsCorp. It seemed obvious to Ramos that America's corporate military suppliers were under attack. It seemed equally obvious that what the Feds were most interested in was keeping knowledge of the disasters away from the public. Details of the Quest attack had already been suppressed. But Ramos was willing to bet they couldn't keep reports of this green-loving lunatic out of the news for long.
"Hey, MJ, take a look at this!"
Mary Jane Watson set the box she was carrying down on the floor with an 'oomph' and walked over to the TV. Janeen had the news on, as usual. The smooth-faced reporter was just wrapping up her report—
"—which makes the fourth sighting this week for the masked vigilante. The note he left in the victim's handbag reads simply, "Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."
"Amazing, Dona. We'll all have to watch out for spider-bites," her co-anchor joked lamely, "but I bet our meteorologist has some advice for us on avoiding insect bites this summer—" Janeen hit the remote and the picture faded out.
MJ snorted. "I can't believe some guy is running around New York in tights. It's so gay." She brushed her sweaty red hair out of her eyes and said, "Can you help me with the next one? It's heavy."
"Sure," Janeen said. Like Mary Jane, she was dressed in sweat pants and a tank top, ready to help her new roommate move in.
Mary Jane had been thrilled to get the extra bedroom in the apartment. Janeen was a couple years older than her, a massage student and a yoga teacher. When Mrs. Watson had mentioned to her fellow stylist at the beauty salon that her Mary Jane was looking for a place to live in the city, Janeen's mother had jumped at the chance to get a decent girl to share rent with her daughter. Janeen's last roommate had been a heavy drinker and the parties had kept Janeen from studying at home—and health-conscious Janeen had gotten tired of fighting for quiet time to sleep. Mary Jane had liked the thin blond girl from the start, although the wanna-be actress fresh out of high school found Janeen's graceful confidence a little intimidating.
"You know," Janeen said as she and Mary Jane grabbed the opposite sides of the foot locker and hauled it out of the trunk, "last week he found that kid, the one that got snatched at the mall?" They started maneuvering the trunk up the stairs. "He left the kidnappers wrapped up in spider webs hanging off the second floor railing and dropped the kid off at the information desk. It was wild. Dang, this is heavy." Setting the foot locker down, the girls took a breather.
"You gotta wonder what the deal is with him and spiders. I mean, I actually like spiders, but I don't want to, well, be one!"
"Who cares? I'm just impressed that someone is trying to help other people. It, y'know, it deserves some applause, even if he is nuts."
Janeen hefted her side of the box again and Mary Jane followed with her end up the last flight to the apartment, to set it with the rest of her stuff. The pile of boxes and the empty room were exciting, ready to be arranged the way she wanted, decorated the way she wanted. It was her own place, total independence. She'd been waiting for this for so long it seemed unreal that it was actually happening.
The hot afternoon passed fast as Mary Jane unloaded and unpacked. She and Janeen ordered deli and sat around in the middle of half-empty boxes and piles of clothes, eating and talking. When Janeen turned on the local evening news, they saw more coverage of the spider-like hero, including a 'man in the street' series of interviews, with opinions ranging from 'he sucks and I don't like him' to 'guy with eight hands, sounds hot'. MJ didn't say anything else about him, feeling uncomfortable about her earlier flip comments. Janeen was right, it was great he was helping people out. Still, if she and her friends from high school had ever seen someone dressed in a body suit, acting like a spider, they would have laughed their heads off.
When the phone rang, Janeen pushed the mute button for the TV and picked it up. "Hello? Yes, she's here." Raising her eyebrows and grinning, Janeen stage-whispered, "It's a bo-oy," before handing it over. Mary Jane rolled her eyes and took the receiver. "Harry! Hey, yeah, getting moved in." "Uh-huh," she twiddled the cord around a finger, "Yeah, uh, that's Janeen, my new roommate." She shot an amused glace at Janeen, who was lounging on the couch. "No, she's pretty, why, you looking to replace me?" "Yeah, that'd be great. See you then." MJ hung up.
Janeen let her head fall back and looked sideways at MJ, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "So, boyfriend?" she asked.
"I guess. We've been going out for a few weeks now, since graduation."
"Come on, details. Name, rank, serial number..."
Mary Jane blushed. "Well, Harry Osbourne, went to my high school—well, last couple of years—good looking, nice guy. He just got an apartment a few blocks away from here. In fact, he's rooming with my old next-door neighbor." Mary Jane smiled, thinking about Peter standing in the back yard, telling her how great she'd been in all the school plays, even if what he remembered was that stupid first grade Cinderella show.
"Sounds great. Wish I could find a nice guy. Everyone I end up dating is a jerk."
"I hear ya," MJ groaned. "My last boyfriend? Did he ever need to get over his testosterone..." The two girls chatted until late, trying to fit all of Mary Jane's belongings into a few inadequate pieces of second-hand furniture. After Janeen finally gave up, yawning, and went to her own bedroom, Mary Jane sat for awhile on the edge of her futon, looking at her reflection in the mirror propped against the wall next to her. Unexpectedly, she felt depressed and a little lonely in this strange place. She looked over her red hair, her too-fat round face, her short nose. God, she'd give anything to be elegant, to trade in her own cutesie looks for something striking, more mature. She wondered what she'd look like if she dyed her hair black...but Harry loved her red hair, was always talking about how pretty it was. It gave her a thrill to think about Harry, the look on his face when she said she'd go out with him—like he couldn't believe it. He'd told her more than once that he couldn't wait for her to meet his dad. MJ grimaced at her reflection. She knew he didn't mean anything, well, serious with that—hey, they'd been dating two weeks, c'mon—it just made her uncomfortable. It was obvious that Harry saw his father as the next-best thing to God. Maybe, if your father was a successful, wealthy businessman, that was normal. Maybe, if your father wasn't an emotionally abusive creep, you wanted to share your life with him, tell him about your new girlfriend. She was the one acting abnormally sensitive about the whole thing.
You're just tired, she told herself. Get some sleep and tomorrow everything will look fantastic again. You've got your own place! Mary Jane got ready for bed, brushing her teeth and shedding her dirty sweats for a clean pair and an old T-shirt. You need some sleep to clear the cobwebs out of your head. She chuckled to herself. Just can't get away from spiders today.