Spider-Man 3: Unearthed
By UberDoc (Author) and DavrosFan (Story Analyst)
This story is rated "M" (16+) for blood and gore, intense violence, strong language (in some scenes), mild sexual suggestions, and drug/alcohol use. Intended for mature audiences only.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Spider-Man© cinematic movie series that was originally owned by Sony Pictures Entertainment©; nor do I own the rights to the cover image of this story. All of the content in this story is for recreational use, not for self profit.
Prologue: Retribution
For a moment's notice, darkness filled the void of the universe. Desolated cosmic wonders laid beyond the horizon of the distant cosmos, but soon became engulfed through daybreak. The rise of light gave rejuvenation to the never-sleeping city, and motivated millions to ascend from their slumber.
By the third hour past sunrise, many found themselves in their occupations, universities, and other responsibilities. However, for some, the business of freelancing required a different type of schedule. The eight hour shifts were non-existent in their world; their calls waited on the line at any time.
In the rundown apartment complexes of Uptown Manhattan, a particular man waited for his call. He didn't expect one for quite some time, given his rookie title in his newly acquired occupation. In dealing with this predicament, he continued his morning routine.
The weights slammed onto the concrete floor after each rep was completed. Deadlifting over five-hundred pounds of rusted iron, his shouts echoed throughout his apartment. Though, most of the noise was canceled from the riffs of a guitar blasting at maximum volume; the free-weights on the floor practically shook from the soundwaves. After his set was completed, he moved towards the padded bag hanging from the ceiling, and hit it with his thunder-like left and right hooks. He followed up with jabs and crosses, and concluded the combination with a muay-thai roundhouse kick. He repeated this combo several times over, increasing his speed, while retaining the same force every time. At this point, his knuckles were reddened, and sweat poured off his body. Though, he was far from complete.
He de-racked the four-hundred pound set of barred weights from the adjacent station, and pressed it away from his chest several times over, until failure. His heart was racing out of his chest at this point, so he grabbed a gallon jug of water from his nearby freezer, and poured it over his head and torso to cool himself off, then drank the remainder of it. He took a seat on the bench, and gazed off into the blank wall in front of him. The man was so zoned-out, in fact, that he almost didn't notice his illuminated cell-phone sounding off. Snapping out of his trance, the man stepped up to the phone after turning off his music, and wiped his hands on a towel.
The contact read off by a much-awaited corporate name, to his surprise. He curiously answered, attempting to control his anticipation.
"Hello?" he said.
"Hey, It's Betty; I'm glad I could get a hold of you." the woman told him. "Have you been watching the news?" she asked.
"Not this morning, no. Why?" the man curiously asked.
"It's about Oscorp. Osborn just released that he's going to hold a press conference at his charity banquet tonight. His PR rep said that he's going to address 'several controversies' at the event, which makes us think he's going to at least talk about you-know-what." she responded.
There was silence for a moment. "Okay, that's great and all, but where do I fit into any of this? Seems pretty out of my league." he followed up, not expecting much out of the information.
"Well you're wrong; our main guy called out. We need somebody to get some shots of Osborn at the banquet, and you're next on our list." Betty told him.
The man's eyes opened wide, astounded by her response. "What?!" he accidentally shouted. "You're serious?"
"Yes, as long as you have a nice tuxedo in your closet." she chuckled.
"Yeah I do, believe it or not. When is it?"
"At seven PM. Can you make it?" Betty asked.
"You bet, sweetheart; just give me the address, and I'm in." he told her, grabbing a pen and piece of paper.
"Great! You know, you really saved us on this one. I know the boss will appreciate it."
The fellow chuckled, saying, "Don't get your hopes up on that one."
Betty laughed, and agreed. "It's at 57th Street and Lexington Avenue. There should be an underground parking lot around there that's for the press; be sure to take that one if you plan on taking your bike."
"Thanks. I'll be sure to get some good shots tonight; I can promise you that." he assured her.
"I appreciate it; thanks a lot. Just remember to bring your press pass!"
"No problem. I'll go ahead and put it on the table so I don't forget it." He replied, doing just that.
"Great. I'll see you tomorrow!" she said.
"Alright, see ya' then." he concluded, closing his flip phone.
Suddenly, his relaxed composure blew, and he shouted out in jubilance. This was the call that he was waiting for; not just to take pictures of some ordinary petty theft crime scene, or snap some rather bland shots of a local opera presentation. Harry Osborn himself was about to break the headlines that night, and the ambitious man finally had a lone-wolf opportunity to get his shots below that bold print. He couldn't gather to accept that euphoric reality.
After somewhat calming down, he knew was his next priority was. He opened back up his phone, and opened his contact list. After clicking on the first favorite contact in the memory bank, he held the phone up to his ear.
He was met with a protracted ring, and eventually received a voicemail prompt, not surprised. He tried a few more times, before doing the same thing over again, expecting a different result.
Typical—she never answers when she's in class. Of course she's gonna make me wait. He chuckled.
Shortly after the shower head was turned off, he shaved off his five o' clock shadow, and put on his dark denim jeans, and white tee-shirt. He then slipped into his sneakers, and put on a pair of aviators before leaving the apartment.
Despite the ominous nature of his neighborhood, it was nonetheless a considerably nice day in his borough. The bright spring sun shined upon every street corner, and there was a cool breeze that would raise the endorphins of even the most pessimistic of individuals.
The photojournalist racked the kickstand on his tried and true 59' Indian Chief. While it may not have been in the greatest condition, it always made a hell of a roar on ignition. It never failed to crack a smile on his face. He took off for Empire State Univeristy, and made sure the whole block knew he was doing so.
The capitol university of Manhattan was quite a beautiful institution. The flowers were blooming, and the lush trees were in their prime—following the aftermath of New York's brutal winter front. It was only a month before the summer commenced, and the transition seemed to reach near perfection.
After parking in the lot of the Building of Physical Sciences, the man walked past several young freshman and sophomore undergraduates leaving the campus early. Those were the students registered in quantum mechanics and astrophysics—not relating to the field of study of the man's significant other.
Before he arrived within a few feet of the entrance, his love exited the dual French doors of the building. He locked eyes with her, just after she saw the missed calls on her phone. Her blonde hair was bound in a ponytail, and she was wearing a casual, yet eye-drawing striped navy blue tee shirt, with a pair of bright fitting jeans. Her simplistic beauty never failed to keep him attracted.
She shut her phone, and smiled at him—rushing to his arms. The man then kissed her, and asked: "How was the test?"
She muttered, "Well…" "I convinced Doctor Connors to grade my exam before I left…" she said in an uneasy tone, negatively altering her gaze into the man's eyes.
"And?" he asked in anticipation, and slight worry.
Her facial expression completely overturned, and let out a grin again: "I aced it! I made it into his AP class next semester!"
His eyes lit up, and he sighed in relief. "Oh thank God!" he exclaimed, squeezing her tightly. "I'm so proud of you!"
She giggled, and tried prying him off her body. "Alright big guy, that's definitely good enough!"
"You know I have to express my excitement somehow." he chuckled.
"Speaking of which, you seem like you have some sort of good news!" she told him.
The man was shocked. "How did you know?"
"You called me five times while I was taking my exam; plus you're half an hour early!" she laughed.
He shrugged with a smirk, "You got me there." he nudged at her.
"So what's the news?" the woman inquired.
"You'll never believe it." he replied. "I managed to get a gig at Oscorp tonight; they're having a press release on their scandals! I'm finally gonna be on the front cover for once!"
"Holy—" she paused in shock and awe. "What? Babe, that's amazing!" she exclaimed, squeezing him just about as tight as he did to her.
He laughed at the irony. "See, you're just as aggressive as me!" pretending to gasp for air.
She smirked and hit him on the shoulder, creating distance. "Yeah, yeah." the girl chuckled.
"But really though, how did you manage to get that? I thought you said that one guy has dibs on the top stories?"
"Apparently he had to do a rain-check." he said, smirking.
"Well you have no idea how happy I am for you; you deserved this!" she replied.
"I know." he admitted, not worrying about the lack of humility. "What do you say we go out for dinner tonight, my treat? You could get some of your favorite coq au vin…" he offered to her, attempting to properly enunciate the name of the dish.
"Oh là là…" she said with a smirk, "Gladly! But...your French is still god-awful."
"How about you stick to the pronunciation, and I'll just worry about paying for the meal?" he replied along with a smile.
"Sounds good to me." she chuckled. "I'll make the reservations for you."
After time passed by...
"Now that's a good look on you." she told him. "You're stunning." she continued, as she watched him fix his bowtie.
"And you look even better." the man replied, admiring her pearl white formal dress. She had spent hours on her make-up and red lipstick: a look fitting the occasion of dining at a five-star restaurant.
While he was nowhere near the upper class type, the photojournalist knew that he was in for a good bonus for making the front cover; he didn't mind making an occasional investment for his love.
"You ready?" he asked her.
She nodded her head, smiling. They stepped outside into the coming dusk, and got onto his motorcycle. They set off for the Upper-East Side district, with much energy to spare.
The restaurant had a truly beautiful atmosphere, with the finest of gold trimmings and marble floors. The most wealthy of individuals sat in various groups of tables, dining on the most exquisite food that the French had to offer in New York City. They both locked arms and approached the elegant host.
"Bienvenue! How may I assist you two fine guests?" he inquired with his deep French accent.
"We have reservations for two, under Brock." he replied.
"Excellent." he told him, searching through the reservation list. "Very well, monsieur Brock. If you will both come right this way, I will gladly situate your table."
They both followed the host, and sat down at a roomy table for two. He then handed them two menus, filled with endless combinations of meals. "A waiter will be with you shortly. In the meantime, may I get you both something to quench your thirst?"
The two both looked through the menus, and both agreed on a specific type of wine.
"You say the name of it; I'd prefer not to butcher it." the man mumbled to his significant other.
She turned to the host and declared: "We'll have the Bordeaux Sec Chateau Couronneau."
"Splendid choice, madame. I will fetch you some right away." he replied, stepping off to the wine cellar. The two then turned towards each other, and began to converse.
"This place never fails to impress me—or my wallet." he chuckled while reading the menu. "It's like there are different tiers of food, designed for different classes: rich, very rich, richer, and Rockefeller rich. Or, I guess I should say Napoleon rich."
"Pretty much." she replied, chuckling with him. "You know," she said, "I think that someday, we're going to make it there."
"Oh do you?" he asked with a doubtful smirk on his face.
"Two ambitious lovers, chasing after their dreams; where's the limit?"
"Hmm, a photojournalist dating a biomedical major that's forty thousand bucks in debt...I'm thinking maybe the Bronx is our limit." he poked at her. She couldn't help laughing, and also playfully kicking his shin under the table.
"Ah!" he exclaimed in slight pain. "You know, if you break my shin and get us a hospital bill, we'll be stuck in Uptown forever!"
"You make a point." she poked back at him.
A few moments afterwards, a waiter approached them with their desired drinks. "Bonjour, here is your Chateau Couronneau that you both requested. My name is Alexandre Cassel, and I will be your servant this lovely evening. May I get you both started with an apéritif?"
The man observed the menu and stated, "Erm, I'll go ahead and get the beef bourguignon."
The waiter suddenly was thrown off guard, and almost stuttered. "Oh, the bourguignon? That is a repas principal. W-would you like an apéritif first?"
The man at the table raised an eyebrow and said. "What's the difference?"
The girl covered her face with her hand, and her elbow on the table. Though, below her hand, she was smiling and shaking her head. "What kind of appetizer do you want?" his significant other whispered to him, trying to hide the smile on her face.
"Oh!" he exclaimed in realization. "I'll uh...let her pick." he said, trying to hide from his girlfriend's contagious smile.
"That's a good idea." she followed up with him. "We'll get the...Hors d'Oeuvres to start out with."
"But of course, madame. I will be back momentarily with the dish." he replied, stepping to the kitchen.
Following a few moments of silence, the two couldn't stop themselves from laughing once they gained eye contact once more.
"Hey, we're all born with different talents!" he said in defense, chucking as he began to run out of breath. He then raised the glass of wine after a few moments, then proclaimed: "To our prosperity."
"To our prosperity." she replied, tapping her glass with his.
The wine was sweet, much more of a preference to the woman than that of the man. He preferred the taste of bitter liquor, but he didn't mind the occasional abnormality.
"How is it?" he asked her.
"Great, for the price. It was the cheapest wine I could find on the menu."
"I don't think the word 'cheap' is valid in here. The bourgeoisie big wigs behind us might get offended." he chuckled. There was silence for a moment as they looked around the room, observing many of the guests.
"So what's your game-plan for tonight?" she inquired.
"Honestly, I have no idea. All I know is that I'm getting some damn good photos, and getting as much free food as possible." he said, "What do you plan on doing while I'm gone?"
"I might as well get some studying done. I've still got a few finals to get through before the semester ends." she responded.
"Are you confident you're gonna pass?"
"Yeah, I think so. My dad would kill me if I lost my scholarship." she said.
Her boyfriend chuckled. "I doubt he'd get too mad. He's probably too happy at the moment to even worry about it." he paused and then added: "Captain Stacy—now that's a solid promotion if you ask me. He could probably afford to put you through ESU twice. When's he starting the new position, anyways?"
"Next week. Apparently he's finishing up his last case as a sergeant."
A few seconds later, the man told her: "You know, he's gonna be in store for a tough first year as a captain if this Osborn case skyrockets. The gravity of those claims against him is gonna throw the whole city into chaos."
"Yeah. He asked for it, though; he wanted more responsibility." she muttered. "That means less time with the family."
"I'm sure he'll still spend a lot of time with you and your mom. You're like his princess." he assured her.
She chuckled, "Yeah, and he still doesn't know that his princess has a prince."
"I'll get to meeting him eventually. I want to get a good resumé before I introduce myself to his prized daughter, you know? I don't have much to go on right now."
"I think you're scared." she joked with him.
His eyebrows raised, "What? No, no—nah. You just don't know how men work." he said in defense of his ego.
"Suuuure." she said with a smirk on her face.
"Just...go back to drinking your stupid fancy wine." he muttered.
Back at the apartment...
"Be careful while you're out tonight; it's supposed to pour down soon." she told him.
"I'm less worried about my bike, and more about my tux getting drenched." he replied.
"I think you should make it before the storm. I just don't know about it on the way out."
"I'll just bring my coat and hope for the best. Hopefully nobody steals it off my bike." he said, putting on his walnut colored trench coat.
"Seems like a bourgeoisie problem to me.' she replied, poking fun at him from earlier. He chuckled in response as he kept his back turned from her, and towards the mirror.
"Hey," she said, waiting for her boyfriend to turn around. "I love you."
He smiled and kissed her on the lips. "I love you too." he said lowly, appreciating the moment, despite their repeating sarcasm.
"Give em' hell tonight, stud." she replied.
He nodded, grabbed his camera, and opened the door to the neon lights of the run-down neighborhood. He stepped onto his bike, and drove off into the never-ending traffic of Manhattan.
The soundwaves of the exhaust practically shook the asphalt out of the streets of New York. He was by no means late for the banquet, but he simply wanted to enjoy the sheer rush of horsepower. Sure, he'd have to fix his hair before he went inside; but it was worth the cosmetic inconvenience.
The man dodged in and out of traffic, maintaining as much speed as possible in the urban playground. Only a few blocks remained before he would arrive at his destination: that towering skyscraper. So, he made the most out of it. By the the time that he arrived into the underground parking lot, he probably caused a few minor heart attacks from the nearby pedestrians. That wasn't much concern to him at this point.
He pulled up to the ballistic projectile-resistant shelter beside the gate, and held out a barcoded identification card, which read "Press" in bold text. The guard, donning a plate carrier and neutral-colored uniform, scanned the card, and took a good look into the eyes of the motorcyclist.
"Turn left once you get past the first row. Journalists park in the spaces marked in red." he muttered, almost sounding robotic. He quite obviously spent the majority of the night repeating that line.
The man nodded in response, and pulled into his prioritized slot. He then kicked his stand down to stabilize the bike, and parted his brown hair back into place. Next he took off his coat, and placed it onto his motorcycle. He then finally fixed his black tie back into center-mass, and pushed his hair back into place.
The elevator was a few steps away from him, with a few other individuals idly waiting. The doors soon opened, and they poured inside. The attendant in the elevator welcomed them, and confirmed that they all were present for the banquet. He then set the destination for the twenty eighth floor.
Moments passed, and the doors parted once more. The attendant stated: "Feel free to help yourselves to the designated drink section for the media, and enjoy the banquet!"
Frank Sinatra's chorus of "New York" played throughout the room, giving much of an elegant vibe as an introduction. Dozens of journalists, production assistants, and Oscorp representatives conversed in the open ballroom. Some were even dancing in the hub, while others continued to have a little bit too much to drink. That last part seemed quite appealing to the man, so he walked over to one of the many wine tables, adjacent from the cameras in the room.
He stepped up to a dispenser, and poured himself a full glass. There was an attractive female a few feet beside him, getting herself a drink as well. Her dark hair was in a formal bun, and her rich mint green eyes were bold with black eyeliner. The young lady was in a breathtaking sequin dress, which almost directly resembled the beauty of the cosmos.
The man glanced at her, then looked back at his glass of wine. He then turned back to her, and looked at her once more. This time, he enjoyed it.
He cleared his throat, and smirked. "Excuse me, miss. Do you uh—have any idea what this is?"
She slightly turned her cheek and said, "It's Lafite Rothschild, I believe."
The man took a sip of it, and much enjoyed the taste. "It's good quality, that's for sure."
"Seventy year old wine tends to be so." she smiled.
He raised an eyebrow, realizing that he was probably drinking something worth more than his past paycheck.
"Not used to having a quality drink?"
"Oh no—I'm a photojournalist."
She chuckled with him. "Ah, I see! Where at?"
"The Daily Bugle. The name's Eddie Brock—I'm somewhat of a new guy to the business." he said, holding out his hand.
She shook it and said, "Ah yes, the Bugle! I'm Arella Markson—Public Relations Specialist of Oscorp Industries."
"Pleasure' to meet you." he said with a smile on his face.
"Likewise." she replied, allowing for a few moments of silence. "So, are you the next person to take on the monopoly of Parker?"
Eddie chuckled, "Yeah, I suppose so. He apparently called out sick tonight, so this seems to be my best—and maybe my only—shot at getting the golden bone."
"Sick?" she chuckled, and slightly scoffed. "I'm sure that's the reason." Arella mumbled.
A few moments passed for Eddie to process that sentence. "What do you mean by that?" he curiously asked.
She remained silent for a moment, with a frozen facial expression.
"I would love to continue to chat, Mister Brock, but I have other priorities with other parties. Perhaps we could converse some other time." she said to him, with a smirk on her face. "Enjoy the rest of the party." she added, walking away with a sway in her hips.
"Y...Yeah…you too." he said lowly, not expecting her to hear it. Eddie was standing in the same spot, stumped from what she said to him.
What was that supposed to mean? He pondered.
Once he snapped out of his trance, Eddie took a few photos of the banquet, and one of Arella as she stood in a large group of executives. Suddenly, a trio of individuals stopped directly in front of Eddie's shots in order to converse. The disruption irritated him, so he asked them to move out of the way.
"Who gave you the authority to take pictures whenever you want? Can't you see we're talkin' here?" one of the younger men said, wearing a New York Times press pass. He obviously had a little bit too much to drink.
"The First Amendment did, you dimwit." Eddie barked.
The man seemed baffled. "Oh, you wanna talk about the Constitution? How about the fact that you're disturbing the peace by interrupting my conversation?"
The other two men mumbled in his ear, telling him to back off.
"Maybe you should listen to your friends. They seem to be more sober than you, and maybe a little more intelligent." Eddie told him.
The man looked at Eddie's press pass, and laughed.
"You're—you're telling me to back off from YOU: a Bugle boy?" he continued laughing maniacally. "Give me a break!" he blurted, throwing his drink in Eddie's face.
His friends looked at him in shock of what he just did. Eddie turned his cheek, and spit out some of the residue from his lips. He then threw a right hook to the drunk's jawline, dropping him cold. His head bluntly bounced off the marble floor, and a pool of blood poured from his cut lip. Quite a few people turned around to see the commotion, including Arella.
Eddie dumped his drink on the man's face, and said "Cheers!" to the man's accomplices. He then started to walk away after taking a picture of the unconscious reporter. However, a member of the security detail stopped him. He demanded an answer.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he told him, looking at the man on the ground.
"What? It was self-defense." Eddie said, wiping his face off with a handkerchief from his front pocket.
The guard looked back at the man's friends tending to him. They both looked up in embarrassment, and nodded out of agreement. One of them apologized on behalf of the young man.
The guard looked back at Eddie. "Just...don't get caught up in another incident like this. We're in a charity event, for god's sake."
"No problem. I'll just stay away from the snobs." he said. "Where's the washroom?"
"Just across the room, over by the speakers." he pointed in the general direction.
Eddie thanked him, and pressed the empty glass against the guard's chest as he walked by, and gave it to him—indirectly telling the man to clean up the mess.
Eddie locked eyes with Arella from across the room, who smirked at him in admiration. He winked at her.
He opened the men's washroom, and went over to a nearby sink to clean up. His white shirt was stained with red wine, and the collar of his jacket was noticeably drenched. He did his best to clean everything off with paper towels, but the damage was already done.
He sighed and mumbled, "Looks like I'm going to the dry-cleaner's tomorrow…"
Eddie eventually stepped back out into the audience, and watched Arella as she stepped onto the stage. He pulled out his camera once more as she walked up to the microphone, and asked for everyone's attention. "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you all for coming to this wonderful event tonight. I hope you all are having a wonderful time." she continued, "I won't keep most of you waiting for the Man of the Hour, since some of you seem to be getting less sober by the minute." Arella said, looking towards the cleanup crew near the wine table. The audience laughed. "So, go ahead and prepare your cameras! Please, give a round of applause for Director Harry Osborn!"
Roaring chants of praise came from the mouths of hundreds in the auditorium. Meanwhile, the crimson and gold trim curtains retracted back into their opening position.
In a stunning onyx tuxedo, vest, and pure white shirt and bowtie, the Director of Oscorp Industries stood tall and illustrious in front of his audience. His smile of accomplishment glared into the dozens of cameras, and his bronze irises lit up the morale of his fellow employees. After waving his hand to them, he stepped up to the microphone on the podium, and shook Arella's hand. She then walked off the stage, giving the whole spotlight to him.
"Thank you, thank you all!" he declared over the voices of the crowd. As the voices raised higher, he cracked an even larger smile than before, and breathed in the pride. Soon, the voices calmed down.
"Wow, we're in a hell of a mood tonight, aren't we?" he chuckled as the music slowly faded.
"Thank you all so much for being here tonight, especially my fellow colleagues at Oscorp Industries. I must thank you all for your incredible contributions to this organization; whether you're an investor, engineer, financial analyst, or any other asset to this company, you all had a priceless role in our accomplishments these past few months. Oh, and of course: thanks to the press, who has kept things quite interesting in recent times—and certainly helped me step on a few banana peels along the way." the audience chuckled.
"Now, I know why many of you are here tonight—and I promise that I will get to your many anticipations shortly. However, I must first address the entire reason for this banquet in the first place." he advanced.
"Tonight, I am here to address the War on Crime. Criminal activity has been an issue in New York City since the prohibition era—a time in which many of you probably would have become mobsters to get your hands on alcohol." he joked, "Statistically speaking, we are on track to becoming the most crime-stricken city in America—which is not a title to be proud of. Our fellow protector of the city: the New York Police Department, is seeing an overwhelming amount of crime in the recent months following the disaster of Doctor Otto Octavius. They cannot keep up with the rising numbers, and they certainly cannot contain the rise of terror cells in the city without more federal funding."
"However, given the recent decline of the economy, and the rise of military action in Afghanistan, Washington is having much more issues focusing on our domestic abnormalities. They are almost leaving our wonderful state in the dust, to where our local governments are forced to raise taxes on our working class in order to relatively maintain the peace! Even that isn't doing enough to protect the citizens; there are so many that are hoping to be protected by masked vigilantes who live by anarchy! This is atrocious; and I for one cannot stand by and watch my birth city crumble to ashes by criminal degenerates!"
"Henceforth, I have realized that we can no longer rely on federal funding to shield our growing population. I am here to announce that Oscorp Industries will be pumping an immediate ten billion dollar stimulus into the funding of the New York Police Department, and local anti-crime and poverty organizations." he boldly proclaimed. The audience, astounded by Osborn's statement, applauded his philanthropic contribution.
"We cannot allow the peace to be lost in this beautiful city due to the negligence of our politicians in Washington! In addition, I have spoken with Governor Greg Thompson about this action to combat crime in our communities, and we have come to a personal solution to the lack of policing in key areas of New York. While our stimulus will aid in the hiring of new officers of the law, the benefits of this package will take time to have a significant difference on our neighborhoods." he told the audience.
"The reason behind this is due to the extreme measures our local police department takes to ensure that their officers are in top condition to uphold the Constitution, and will resist the temptation of corruption. In the past few years, their updated training has proven to take months to complete, thereby leaving a large time gap for criminals to take advantage of the lack of new officers. While our funding will aid in the increased payment and benefits of the NYPD's officers, and give them state-of-the art equipment to fight crime, the simple lack in numbers will prove to be mostly ineffective in the macro-level of criminal activity."
"Therefore, Governor Thompson and Oscorp Industries has agreed to signing a temporary agreement to allow the use of counter-crime units, composed of former veterans of the United States' beloved military, former officers of the law, private military contractors, and Oscorp's very own security personnel." he paused, "Now of course, I know what some of you in the media business may be thinking: and no, these counter crime units will not have the same level of authority as our boys in blue. They are classified as private entities under the United States Constitution, and will abide by the laws of our country. In layman's terms, you may think of them as part of an 'enhanced neighborhood watch' program."
Eddie raised an eyebrow. ...What…? He thought to himself.
"These units will have the right, just as any other neighborhood watch member, to apprehend suspects of a crime, and temporarily detain individuals until an actual officer of the law arrives to arrest the citizen. They will have no authority to infringe on our unalienable rights, so there is no worry on that part. By having qualified, state-licensed individuals combating crime, instead of masked vigilantes beating criminals to a pulp, and sometimes killing them, we can restore our public's trust in our local authorities, and rely less on anarchy to maintain the peace."
"With that being stated, I have a word I would like to share on the topic of vigilantes. Specifically, the more well-known one: namely, the Spider-Man. Many citizens of New York idolize this man as their hero, when in fact, Spider-Man is perhaps the greatest threat to peace and stability as we know it. While many point to his 'noble' apprehension of criminals—which sometimes includes innocent individuals—Spider-Man has been responsible for the deaths of several people in the past few years...including my beloved father." he stated, allowing a long pause in the audience as cameras flickered every millisecond. This was the moment the media was waiting for.
"I...have yet to speak of much about my father since his untimely death. However, in light of the recent media attention, and theories proposed, I have come to announce a few important statements on his death."
"For over two years, the police report that was filed the night of his death has remained classified, as personally requested by myself. In the past, we at Oscorp never released the cause of his death; but in truth, I am here to announce that on the night of October 7th, 2002, Norman Osborn was murdered." Several low gasps were heard in the audience. Eddie continued to get dozens of pictures of Harry's traumatic announcement.
"On that night, when I was inside of my manor, I walked into my father's bedroom to an absolute tragedy. In that room laid Norman Osborn, on his deathbed. While this was enough of a horrible moment, an additional detail absolutely tore me apart from the inside. Beside his lifeless body was none other than the masked vigilante: Spider-man. As I shouted at him, and asked what he had done, he rushed out the window, and retreated from my sight like a coward. If you look at the screen beside me, you will observe the exterior building's closed-circuit footage of what happened that night: with Spider-Man carrying my lifeless father on his shoulder, and breaking into my home. You can even slightly make out the tatters in his outfit, showing that my father tried to put up a fight against the killer."
Eddie immediately took photos of the newly released footage, thrown off in shock.
"Now yes, this of course raises many questions: most importantly, what exactly happened to cause his death; and furthermore, what the motive was." he said, "This comes to another piece of truth that must be mentioned. I am here to confirm that yes, Norman Osborn was indeed under the alias of the so-called 'Goblin' at the time. My father was a man who was mentally traumatized, in light of his psychological torment from his fellow colleagues at this company—who betrayed him in the workplace. He was by no means a perfect man; he was a victim of a mental sickness, who was denied the right to live, and to receive treatment. Spider-Man was said to have fought him that night, near the Manhattan Bridge. Spider-Man, who was illegally pursuing a fight with Norman Osborn, had the power to save him, in light of his own crimes of vigilantism. He has bodily enhancement that no human being could ever obtain; he is a meta among men; yet he chose the path of murder. Who in their right mind would take the life of someone, when they have the power to SAVE them, and allow them to have the right to a fair trial, and due process?" he exclaimed emotionally, with tears nearly forming in his eyes.
A few seconds of complete silence passed, as those words pierced the hearts of the members of the audience. Not even one camera flicked for five seconds straight. A new image appeared on the television screen.
In a low, and serious tone, Harry Osborn continued. "...Need we forget Spider-Man's other victims? Take Dennis Carradine, whose police report is only now being released to the public. There were mere reports from the press on this man's death in 2002, but none contained several key facts of the event. Dennis Carradine, middle aged man who robbed a local wrestling event on the night of his death. As he fled from the authorities, it was never established what truly happened after his vehicular accident at a vacant warehouse. The truth, as written in the police report, states that after several gunshots were heard by authorities, Mister Carradine, father of two, was pushed out of a top-story window, and plunged to his death directly after. Police identified the suspected killer as a young, white male, in a red and blue outfit, with a symbol in the middle—somewhat resembling the primitive suit of Spider-Man, as shown in this image that was taken the night of the event, where Spider-Man actually competed in one of the wrestling matches."
How the hell did he get his hands on those reports…? Eddie thought to himself.
"How about Doctor Otto Octavius—a man who was traumatized by the death of his wife, and corrupted by artificial intelligence—who was found dead in a nearby pier just two months ago? Where was the mercy of Spider-Man then? Do you all notice a pattern with this supposed 'hero'?" Harry said, "He murders anybody that he deems is too dangerous for a fair trial! What kind of a hero is that?"
"I think we should come to appreciate and support our local police department more, instead of these terroristic anarchists. We here at Oscorp believe we can do this by our stimulus package and counter-crime programs; and we urge you to support this much needed aid to the city of New York. In addition, I personally call for an uprising of protests against the so-called Spider-Man, and request that he be arrested, and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law! Do it for our children—our loved ones—our city!" he proclaimed, with an incredible amount of applause following it.
Holy shit. Eddie thought, completely speechless.
"Thank you all so much for your support! If you wish to donate along with Oscorp, please visit the guest station across the room, near the elevator. Your contributions are greatly appreciated, and once again, on behalf of Governor Thompson and Oscorp, we appreciate you all for coming tonight. May we truly see a fundamental change in this War on Crime within our near future. Thank you!" he exclaimed as the curtains closed.
He exhaled with a smile on his face, as the crimson curtains stood shut. He continued starting straight, and exclaimed, "Someone get me a drink!" with his smirk still present. As a servant fetched a glass of scotch, a familiar face approached him backstage.
"Ah, Arella!" he initiated with a smile on his face as well.
"Director Osborn, that was an incredible speech! Thank you so much for hosting this event; it's all so wonderful." she told him in admiration.
"The pleasure is mine, Miss Markson. I'm glad to see that you made it here; and please, call me 'Harry.'" he responded, giving her a welcoming handshake. "Might I say—you're stunning in that outfit; I'm used to seeing you in business attire!" he added.
Arella's cheeks blushed slightly, "Oh, well thank you, Direc—I mean, Harry!"
Harry smirked, "I'm so proud of you for getting that deal with Thompson. Congratulations on getting that in the bag! I know you worked hard to negotiate it." he complimented, taking a sip out of his glass.
"Thank you so much! Yeah, I think I worked about forty hours overtime every week to get this done. It wasn't easy, but it was all worth it. I'm honored to have been a part of the project." she replied.
"Speaking of honor, you should be awarded for your efforts..." Harry said. "Perhaps you would like to have dinner sometime?"
"Oh—I would love to!" she said to him unexpectedly.
"Good. Once the party's over, maybe we'll think out the plans. I don't want to keep your accomplices out there waiting for you." Harry said, winking.
"That sounds great to me." she replied. "Meet me back here at nine?"
"Of course." he responded with a smirk.
She let out a smile, attempting to appear somewhat professional, despite her lust. She then walked off to the hub of the room, returning to her socialization with several executives of Oscorp Industries.
Meanwhile, Harry received the glass of scotch, and slowly enjoyed its crisp, smooth taste. He observed the downpour of rain through the broad window; the thunder of the storm roared throughout the city, almost as if it was the spark of the drums of war: a war on vigilantism—a war on the Spider.
The lightning continued to strike the distant landscape, illuminating the urban jungle set before him. He gazed at an adjacent skyscraper, only a few hundred feet away from himself. As he looked closer, and observed the detail of the shadows, it almost appeared that he could make out a silhouette in the darkness—knelt toward the skyscraper...
Through the rain, in true reality, the lightning reflected from the silver lenses on the figure's scarlet mask. The rain dripped down from his shoulders, and off the tips of his fingers. He mutually gazed at the window containing the director of Oscorp Industries, feeling as if he was staring into the eyes of a lost soul. He never wanted this, but he knew that it was coming; it was only a matter of time. It infuriated him; his comrade—something of a brother to him, was now bound as his adversary. The figure clenched his fist with a blood-boiling tremor, straining the water through his fingers.
Osborn could almost feel the absolute resentment from the figure; it flowed into Harry's own rising heartbeat. Soon, it raised the hairs on the back of his neck—sent chills down his spine...
...And then it made him smile.