Before you read:
This is something I've wanted to do for a while. I'll admit I'm not the biggest comic book reader, but I love super-heroes, and I've always wanted to write them. And seeing as I'm not actively writing anything else right now, I thought I'd start doing this to keep my skills sharp. So basically, this is an attempt to re-imagine the Marvel Comics universe without any super-powers.
This will not be a continuous narrative, but a collection of short stories based on that concept, that may or may not connect into a central conflict.
The Green Goblin
Her head was smashed; like a flat soccer ball was wearing her face. Under the blood, where the skin had split on impact with the ground, he could see bone and even brain. Her limbs were twisted; her fingers on her left hand were splintered wrecks. This wasn't supposed to happen.
Peter pulled her up from the ground - it was like peeling away a wet bandage. Her limp body was covered in blood. This isn't happening, he thought. Wake up, Peter, wake up! She'll be fine if you just wake up! The tears started, and he couldn't make them stop. Screaming, sobbing, screaming, he sat in the street with her lifeless body in his arms.
She had been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Ever since that first day of Connors' class, when she smiled that shy little smile, he had been trapped there. He was going to tell her; tell her everything; how he had been Spider-man since he was sixteen; how he would have quit all that and married her. He had just needed to stop her boss, first.
Norman Osborn was a killer. As best as Peter could guess, it had all started after he accidentally killed one of his chief scientists. Doctor Sandberg had refused to recommend their new pharmaceutical for human testing, and Osborn had lost it. The police never found any evidence, but Sandberg's wife had been convinced that Norman killed her husband. Since then, nearly anyone who was known to have had a disagreement with Norman Osborn had disappeared or been found dead. The only lead the police had was the report of a homeless witness who claimed he saw a big green goblin kill Stuart Mudali, an Oscorp board member who had threatened to sue Osborn.
Peter had intended it to be his last act as Spider-man; he had broken into Osborn's home and found a blood-stained green mask. But instead of planting it near the latest murder scene, as he had planned, Peter called Osborn to try and draw him out, show his dark side to the world. And Gwen had paid the price. While she was falling, he kept thinking of the stories he'd heard of people who fell off mountains or out of planes and survived.
He laid her body back onto the ground. The world was getting fuzzy all around him, like a watercolor painting. He felt a heavy pressure in his shoulders, and a burning in his head that started to swell throughout his body. After a few moments, the only clear thought he could muster was Norman Osborn's face. He pulled his phone out of his backpack, and dialed the number a second time. It rang once - this is a bad idea - rang twice - need to walk this off - rang thrice - WALK IT OFF? FUCK YOU! - then there was the familiar buzz of the line being picked up.
"Hello, Spider-man." Norman Osborn's voice sounded strange, like he was out of breath but refused to breathe deep; like he could barely get the words out of his mouth.
"What… did… you… do?"
"Well," Osborn said, "I would have liked to kill one of your loved ones, but since you're so mysterious, I settled for the closest body… Spider-man." Peter's heart sank at loved ones. "I can't tell from up here; did she make it?"
"I'm going to kill you, you sick green-masked FUCK!"
"Speaking of my mask, I'm still waiting for you to bring it to me. But you'll need to meet me somewhere else now. How's the roof. I know you're not scared of heights."
"Be up in a minute."
Peter smashed the phone under his heel and looked up at the building in front of him. He couldn't just ride the elevator up. Osborn's security had nearly killed him the last time he tried that. This wasn't going to be easy. He might be Spider-man, but even he couldn't stick to walls - no matter what the papers said. He had gotten up to Norman Osborn's office before, but it wasn't easy, and he'd had days to plan it. Now he had to remember how to get that far. From there, he just hoped the transition to the roof wasn't too much for him.
Peter circled around to the back of the building, where he started his climb. From the dumpsters of the adjacent hotel, he climbed a fire escape that led all the way to the roof, eight stories up. From there, he had to find the right spot to make his jump to Oscorp Tower's seventh floor smoking deck.
As he made ready for the leap, his Uncle Ben came to his mind.
"Are you planning on killing that man, Peter?" he could hear his uncle ask.
"He's sick," Peter said out loud to the shade in his head. "He needs to die."
"Glad you're not a doctor."
"You would choose to make jokes at a time like this."
"And you choose to forget you're talking to yourself. Ben Parker's been dead for five years."
"Touché."
Peter ran, hopping over a small air conditioning unit, making for the edge of the roof. The distance of the jump wasn't a problem; it was the short stop. He had maybe three feet between his intended landing spot and the wall. He had to minimize the forward momentum, and make sure his feet - not his head - hit the wall on the ensuing role. He hit the edge of the hotel roof and pushed up hard, sending himself into a back flip. He wouldn't have much time to re-locate his landing spot, but the backward momentum would help him stop short.
He saw the hotel, upside-down, and then the street, and finally the smoking deck of Oscorp Tower.
He landed hard and rolled, pushing off the wall with his feet to stop himself. No injuries. From here, Peter had another twenty-three floors to scale.
By the time Peter reached Norman Osborn's office, he was thinking straight again - pushing through physical exhaustion will do that. He realized Osborn could easily be waiting in his office for when he passed by. For that matter, he almost certainly was waiting in ambush, either here or on the roof. Peter climbed around Osborn's window, and then peeked into the office from the side. He couldn't see anyone from that vantage, so he made his way in.
It was a lavish office; just the same as it had been the last time he made this climb. Everything was in shades of green, right down to the jade statue of a goblin on the massive desk.
Peter found the mini-bar behind the desk. He grabbed a bottle of water and a Power Bar, then sat on the floor by the window, breathing heavily and trying to find an easy way up the last fifteen feet to the roof.
"Are you ready to listen yet?" he heard the memory of his uncle ask him.
"Why not?"
"You said earlier this man was sick."
"Yeah."
"That kind of sick is contagious. Don't catch it."
"I know. I won't."
"Good. And when this man's in prison… don't forget to grieve, kid."
Hanging from a rope tethered to a support strut on the underside of the roof, Peter ran along the side of the building, gathering as much momentum as he could for the upswing. Fortunately, he timed it right, and as he ran off the corner of the building, and pushed out hard, his momentum carried him up and over the lip of the roof's landing pad. As he set down atop Oscorp Tower, he unclipped the rope and sprinted for the nearest cover, before Norman could overcome the shock and start firing.
It didn't take Norman long, but Peter made it to cover behind a maintenance shed with only three shots fired. Peter saw the gun as he ran; it was an original Beretta 92, from the seventies. It had a fifteen shot magazine, so the psycho had twelve shots left. And he was running for Peter's shed.
Osborn wasn't thinking clearly, though. He rounded the corner firing like a madman - four, five, six, seven shots gone - but Peter was gone by then.
"Come out, come out, little Spider-man."
At a noise around the next corner, he jumped, firing again - eight, nine, ten shots.
"Where are you?" he yelled. "You're only delaying the inevitable! Give me back my mask!"
Another noise behind him had him spinning - eleven, twelve, thirteen shots.
Then, from above: "Yoo-hoo."
The voice from drew one shot, but Norman finally got hold of himself. He backed away from the shed.
"You really are an annoying little shit, you know."
Peter laughed as he jumped down to hide behind the shed again. "I lied to you earlier, Osborn. I'm not going to kill you… though you'll probably wish I had when you're reliving your favorite moments from Oz in prison."
Osborn slowly circled the shed at a distance. "Do they have ruby slippers in prison?"
"HBO, ass-rape Oz; not Judy Garland, flying monkeys Oz."
"I've not seen that one," Osborn said as Peter sprinted out from the opposite corner. Norman's last shot grazed Peter's shoulder, and then they were a tangle of rage and crazy. Peter tackled him, but the momentum was too much. He had too much fury built up, and he miscalculated the force he would need. They rolled, and Osborn ended up on top.
Blows rained down like a hail of fists. It was all Peter could do to cover his face and try to think. He was overmatched. One thing he'd never had much experience with was grappling. He usually used his athleticism to stick and move. Osborn was a champion wrestler in college, and now he trained with MMA guru Vic Moreno. Peter tried to recall anything he could of what he'd seen on the UFC, but he was starting to get loopy.
It felt like he was stuck under a rock at the bottom of the ocean. He couldn't breathe. Finally, Osborn got overconfident: he stopped pummeling Peter to reach into his backpack and grab the green mask.
"This is mine, you freak!" he screamed as he shook it in Peter's face.
As he slipped it over his head, covering his face with the grotesque disguise, Peter regained some of his senses. A quick punch to the chin as Osborn settled the mask, and then a roll got Peter out from under the Goblin. He gasped for air and tried to get up.
But his reprieve was short-lived. He was still sluggish and moving at half-speed, but Osborn was quick back to his feet. A kick that would have fit better in the World Cup connected with Peter's head before he could find his feet, sending him rolling away in a daze.
He kept his roll going, trying to put some distance between himself and his opponent. He realized almost too late that he was dangerously close to the edge of the landing pad. He stopped himself only inches from open air.
I'm sorry, Gwen. I tried.
Peter pushed himself up onto hands and knees. His mouth was full of blood.
"You're a chemist, right Osborn?"
Norman was stalking back and forth like a tiger. "Boy, I was a chemist before you were born."
"So two chemists walk into a restaurant. The first one says, 'I'll have an H2O.' The second one says, 'I think I'll have an H2O too' - and he died."
"Harry always said you were funny, Peter."
It can't be! How could he know?
Peter collapsed as he tried to stand up. He coughed up more blood into his hands. His head started to swim. Every image of his messed up life started to cascade in his mind. He heard Osborn scream like a banshee.
He looked to Norman Osborn, who was charging like a bull to kick him over the edge.
All right, Uncle Ben. I guess I'll see you soon. You always told me I'd fall to my death one day. Wait, is that…?
Peter grabbed the rope and clipped it to his quickdraw. Then his ribs cracked under the force of Norman's kick. He felt himself lifted up by the blow, and then there was air underneath him - a lot of air. Norman was screaming, clutching at Peter as they went over the edge. Peter did try to grab hold of him; but all he got was a handful of green mask.
It was raining. Peter Parker stood in front of two graves without so much as a raincoat, shivering. He'd watched them both die. George Stacy had been shot by a guy pretending to be Spider-man. And Gwen…
He hadn't been able to go to the funeral. It was too much. Just getting out of bed in the morning was a battle he didn't always win. What was worth it anymore? Every night, he dreamed of her falling. When he was awake, he was angry. He snapped at Aunt May for just asking if she could do anything for him. He hadn't taken a single call from Harry since it all happened - and Harry's father was dead. What could he say? "Sorry Harry, you're dad was a crazy serial killer." He wouldn't admit it, but Peter Parker wanted to die. And the day he reconciled himself to that, all hell was going to break loose in New York.
And then there was someone beside him. Under a green umbrella and a tangled mass of red hair, a woman knelt down to place flowers at the grave. Peter just stood there. Her knees in the dirt, the girl cried sorrowful tears, sobbed, mumbled something inaudible. Still, Peter didn't move. He just stared at the gravestone, only superficially noticing the girl.
"Peter…?"
She'd stood up, and now she was facing him. Peter was sure he recognized her from somewhere, but he couldn't be bothered to think about it. What was she saying?
"Peter, how long have you been here?"
She moved to block his view of the grave.
"Peter, when's the last time you ate?"
…
"Peter, can you hear me? Do you know who I am?"
…
"Peter, your Aunt May called me. She said you've been here for two days - in the rain."
It came to him who she was. They had dated a couple of times, back in high school; but Spider-man had gotten in the way. He used to think she was the one that got away. It didn't make much difference now. He moved just enough to see Gwen's name again.
"Peter. It's Mary Jane. You need to get out of this weather."
It was supposed to sink in, wasn't it? At some point he was supposed to start grieving. When Ben Parker died, Peter had been heart-broken, melancholy for three years; but it hadn't felt like this. This was like the world stopped spinning - like everyone else was sleepwalking. Didn't they even care that she was dead? They just kept talking… eating… going to work… what did any of that matter now? Didn't they even know what was gone? He couldn't go on any more. Not without her.
"Peter, you gotta calm down. You're gonna hyperventilate. Just breath normal, Peter… Okay, I'm going to touch you now, Peter. I've gotta get you somewhere away from here."
Mary Jane reached out and touched Peter's shoulder. He went limp, collapsed into her arms. She let him down slowly, and sat there in the mud with his head in her lap. He was trying to cry, she realized, but it was just coming out as pained noises and gasps for air.
"It's gonna be alright Peter. It's gonna be alright."