CHAPTER-1
Darkness had descended on the city. A half-moon hung over the steel towers of Manhattan, shining its silvery light on proceedings below.
"Good job tonight Dmitri!" a man called out of an open door. "Rehearsals were a pain tonight, but you did good"
The man called Dmitri, grunted in approval as he walked out into the night.
It had rained heavily some time ago. Drops of rain clung on to the glass-fronts of the shops on Broadway, while pedestrians walked around with their umbrellas in expectance of another downpour.
Dimitri Smerdiyakov, however, did not even bother to straighten the collars of his overcoat as a harsh wind ploughed through the avenue. The cold winds of November were inconsequential to him. Pushing past a group of homeless teenagers, he cut through an alley. Incidentally, one of the homeless kids followed him.
"You want a fight man! I could drop you in a second!". The boy was a ponytailed ruffian who barely reached his elbow. "Oy, I'm talking to you"
Unable to shake him off, he flashed a look of annoyance at the boy. Surprisingly, the little bugger ran off, peeling with laughter. Back home, he would have had him up in chains. Kids got off too easy in this country.
Walking with purpose, he located his destination - Red Note restaurant. He shifted his eye from the lavish exteriors to the glass panes of the shop. Almost instantly, he spotted his target – a man with dirty blonde hair seated right against the window. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the cozy interiors of the cuisine. The warm smell of coffee permeated the closed atmosphere.
Making his way through the cluster of tables, he sat down opposite to the blonde man. It was more of a booth, than a table.
"Mr. Smythe", Dmitri greeted.
"Spencer, please. Formalities are a bygone in this era, I'm afraid"
He removed his hat and placed it on the counter. "You brought what I asked?"
"Down to business already? No chit-chat?" Spencer Smythe asked in a buttered tone.
"Nothing to chat about. I wanted something, and you can give it to me"
"Very true. But the nature of your order was quite… rare, if I do say so myself"
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing. I'm just merely curious as to how you plan to use this device, though, I have my suspicions"
"I don't care about your damn curiosity? Did you build it or not?"
"Oh yes, there are very few things I cannot build", he smirked. "Though it was not easy to build your specific request, I came through with it. In fact, I managed to put in a few inputs of my own"
"Well, where is it?"
"Patience my dear friend. It is a virtue like no other. Before I hand it to you, or show you the device in question, there are some things to be made clear"
Dmitri clasped the rims of his hat and leaned back into his chair. "I am listening"
"As you very well know, I work for a very, let's just say, privileged client, who would like to remain anonymous at all costs. So, my first request would be, that by no means am I to be linked to your actions with regard to this device. If anyone asks, you built it."
"Do you take me to be a fool? I know how to-"
"Hush now. These are merely the terms of negotiation. There is no need to get upset over this, or maybe you don't want the device anymore?"
"Hmf…Continue"
"As I was saying, no red herrings. Second of all, I need something in return"
"I have money"
"Money is merely trinket to me. My client pays me enough to satisfy all worldly desires. What I want from you is much more valuable."
He bit the insides of his cheek feverishly. "What do you want?"
The smirk on Smythe's face deepened, "You know, I ran a background check on you last night. I was absolutely delighted by what I found."
He immediately swerved his head around, in fear of someone eavesdropping. "Quiet! There are ears everywhere!"
But instead of saying anything, Smythe pulled out an old musty file from the back pocket of his coat. Dmitri had seen it before, but in a place far away, and a long, long time back.
"Look at what this says-", Smythe said, as he opened the folder. The first page was covered with mugshots. "Fifteen years in Moscow prison. Impressive. Your repertoire speaks for itself."
He grabbed Smythe's hands. "What do you want from me?"
"Yes, now you understand the nature of your predicament." Smythe said with a smile.
"There is something I need you to do"
_XXX_
"I'm not sick Aunt May!"
"But you sneezed, Peter! Thrice!"
"Doesn't mean I'm sick!"
"Doesn't mean you're perfectly healthy either". She tried in vain to stick the thermometer into his mouth, "Why is your hair wet? Have you been out in the rain?"
Peter ducked away from her. Making a wild turn, he ran up the stairs to his room. "I'm not sick, May!", he shouted, as he slammed the door to his room.
As soon as he was secure, he grabbed his towel and vigorously dried his hair. A bad flu was definitely due and his throat already felt scratchy. He pinched his nostrils just in time to stop another sneeze. One more sneeze and his aunt would burst in. He rushed to his washbasin and blew his nose.
"Ugh", he groaned, as copious amounts of mucus streamed out. "Yuck"
Once he had satisfactorily cleaned himself, he glared at the pair of white goggles hanging from his coat stand. His drenched red and blue costume was dripping onto the carpeted floor.
The evening had been an absolute nightmare. He had spent hours upon hours, slipping and sliding off perches and walls, and having a horrible time as he tried to scale to higher grounds. Even his trusty webs-shooters, which had served him satisfactorily till now, had been useless in the rain.
Later, his embarrassment had reached new heights when he had slipped off his web-line and landed right in the middle of a puddle. A group of New Yorkers, each carrying an umbrella, had descended on him instantly, taking pictures and laughing their asses off. Eventually he had escaped, but not without losing some of his dignity.
Grumbling, he picked up his webs-shooters and placed them onto his desk. He absolutely needed them to work the next time he went out in a storm.
He unscrewed each part and let the water dribble out. He checked and double-checked the wirings for any faults. Unable to find any, he began working on the composition of his webs. The adhesive wasn't reacting well to water, which was understandable, considering the fact water was a really good solvent. So, the logical thing to do would be to increase the density; that way it wouldn't get diluted so fast.
But increasing the density would have problems of its own. It would mean he would run out of webs faster than usual. He dropped a pellet into a glass of water, as he thought of alternatives.
He didn't know how long he spent tinkering with the project. It must have been hours. Only when the screen of his phone lit up and the caller ringtone ensued, did Peter finally stir from his work. It was his photography teacher.
"Mr. Morrison", he rasped.
"Peter, sorry to disturb you at this time of the night"
"What's up?"
"I was just on my way to bed, when I remembered an urgent matter"
"Mm-hmm?"
"It's related to your submission last week"
Without meaning to, he blushed, "Wait, before you give me a C, I can explain the chihuahuas"
"I can understand why you're appalled. I didn't ask for dog pictures last week."
"I was working in a daze. I didn't mean to submit those."
"It's fine, we can hear your excuses later. No, I was talking about a much more interesting snap of yours. The one in the alley?"
"You'll have to be more specific sir. I don't remember every picture I take"
"I see. Well, does the one with the red and blue streak ring a bell?"
The blood in his veins froze, "You mean... You mean the one with... "
"Well, at first I wasn't so sure. The lighting in the shot was so dim, that I had no inkling what I was looking at," his teacher explained. "So naturally, I scanned it and started enhancing it. I needed to know what I was grading you on. "
Peter already knew where this conversation was leading now. Full blown trouble.
"It took me a few hours, putting in light sources, removing blurs, enhancing the textures, but guess what, it all paid off! I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the final product! " his teachers voice was full of childish glee.
"Umm... Good for you, sir. But I made a mistake. I didn't mean to turn that picture in". It had been a ridiculous photograph. He had used his uncle's old camera and had regretted it almost immediately.
"And good for you as well Mr. Parker! You not only aced last week's homework, but you also managed to get a photo of New York's elusive vigilante. You can't believe how proud I am."
"I aced the homework?" he asked, not sure he had heard right.
"Yup definitely. You brought me a picture of Spiderman. Of course, you aced my test."
"But it wasn't part of last weeks topic. You asked for pictures of historical sites in the city"
"Pff, a trivial matter. I can grade my students however I like."
"Oh ok", he was pretty sure that was wrong.
"But that isn't all Mr. Parker. I was so enthused by your piece of work, that I couldn't keep it to myself"
Oh, no. If trouble was where he was headed before, this was certain doom.
"I don't know if you are aware of this. But as it turns out, pictures of Spiderman are selling like hot cakes. Papers like New York Times and The Daily Bugle are scouring for good shots. So,... I sent them a copy of yours."
"You...What?!", he blustered on the phone.
"And...well, The Bugle called back. Today. "
"They called back? The Daily Bugle", his head was spinning now.
"Yes, they sent a mail, saying they would like to meet the photographer. They've set up an appointment and everything"
He didn't even bother to reply back this time. How on earth could he have been so careless. After months of planning and sneaking out at night, and covering up his bruises and lying to Aunt May, how could he have jeopardised it all in a single stroke.
"Now Peter, I know what you are thinking. It was wrong of me to send your picture without your consent, and it probably was, but you have to understand, this is a wonderful opportunity for you to-"
But Peter had already hung up. He didn't want to hear another word. What he wanted to do was sink through the floor and disappear.
What were the people at the Bugle going to ask him? Probably something like – "how did a sixteen years old manage to click a picture of Spiderman when every other professional photographer in New York was failing miserably?'.
And how was he going to explain it? – "Just happened to be in the right place at the right time, sir." Yeah, he was dead.
He buried his head in a nearby pillow. Why, oh why, couldn't he just catch a break?
_XXX_
Dmitri lashed out in fury.
"You understand the nature of your predicament, Mr. Smerdyakov? I know things about you. Your prison stint in Russia? I uncovered it. It was mere child's play. I know how you escaped, I know where you work, where you sleep, where you spent your last 48 hours. I can even send the cops to your doorstep on false charges. So unless you want that to happen, you'll do exactly what I say."
His bedside table crashed to the ground, as he raged around his dingy apartment.
"My client has big plans for New York. A true vision. But for his vision to come to pass, certain arrangements have to be made. You see, my employer will be carrying out some sensitive work over the next few months, and you remember when I mentioned before, that he relishes his anonymity? Well, the cops have been slightly brave recently and have trespassed into his territory, and so forth. What I need you to do is create a distraction, a spectacle, a grand show, something to hook the masses, and keep the police busy."
He grabbed hold of a table lamp, and sent it rocketing into the opposite wall, shattering the bulb in the process.
"Will you stop that!" his landlady's screeched from downstairs. "It's two in the morning, and I haven't been able to catch a wink because of you. Another sound and I'm kicking you out!"
He resisted the urge to chuck another glass bottle against the wall, just out of spite. His one room apartment wasn't anything glamorous, or even adequately furnished, but it was still a hell of a lot cheaper than the usual Manhattan rented spaces. So, instead he took deep breaths.
Lightly walking up to his dresser, he picked up a razor knife. The metal on the handle was corroded, and the edge was no longer as sharp. Weighing it in his hands, he walked back to his bed, where a brown package lay. He skillfully slit the top open and poured out the contents onto his mattress.
A huge collection of wires spilled out. It seemed like a complete mess. There was wiring connected to innumerable sophisticated contraptions, wires connecting to small wafer-like semiconductors, and even wires running down a black cloth.
"You are a highly elusive man, I'll tell you that. Your past is peppered with disguises and aliases. If I wasn't looking at the right places, I would never have figured them out to be the same person. Your skill of deception…. is admirable."
He pushed the wires away. Somewhere sitting at the bottom of the pile, was a white bag. He gingerly pulled it up, and examined it. No, not a bag, it was a mask, a featureless mask. The light from the flickering bulb, glinted off its polished surface.
"But you want more than just disguises, don't you? You want to be the ultimate actor. The greatest showman of all time! Well Dmitri, here's your chance", Spencer Smythe smiled at him.
"The greatest showman?", he whispered to himself, as he stared into the dark eyeholes of the mask.
"I will be better."
_XXX_