Author's Note: Alright, so I suppose one would have to be at least marginally familiar with the current landscape of the Marvel Universe in order to figure out what I'm on about here. Suffice it to say that Norman Osborn doesn't like anyone. And he likes Spider-Man even less. And while all that's going on, there is, as ever, something far weirder and far more just-plain-bad going on in the bowels of the Marvel Universe; just-plain-bad, but maybe not plain-surprising. The setting of Liberty Island below comes from a prety novel thing Mark Waid did in his time on the main Fantastic Four book back in 2003: having Spidey and the Torch have some kind of 'meeting place' where they'd talk about bad calzones, old girlfriends or really anything. My thanks also to soultaker78 who pointed me in the direction of the 'War Machine' and 'Punisher' monthlies on the stands now, the 'Dark Reign'-related elements of which in turn pointed me in some interesting (I hope) directions. And, in the words of Stephen King, you, Constant Reader. Always you.
Liberty Island.
Spider-Man and the Human Torch.
They had taken up fishing.
Or, more accurately, Johnny had showed up one day for their little once-a-month deal, and Spidey had been sitting there perched on the railing with a bamboo fishing rod. Horribly ramshackle. "Where'd you get that?" Johnny Storm'd asked. "Made it," Spider-Man said. Johnny'd cocked an eye and said, "Huh."
That was five years ago.
So it's been a thing that they do every week or so. They meet up, and go fishing.
Normal people, or so Peter Parker supposed, got lunch and went dutch. We superfolk? We go fishing off of Liberty Island. We talk about old girlfriends and world conquerors and how the fish aren't biting and never will.
This is it.
You've arrived, Parker.
Under the red and blue onesie, Parker sighed and yanked on the bamboo fishing rod. Maybe if he dangled it out there, they'd bite.
That's the stuff bad movies are made of. Geez.
He looked up, toward Lady Liberty's torch up there, and saw a bright orange and yellow light in the shape of a man winding down around her arm. Her neck. He circled the waist a couple or five times, and then landed abruptly next to Spider-Man.
The flames that comprised his body dissipated and he slicked his hair back and put on the shiteatingest smile he could muster.
Johnny Storm.
"Hey, hey," he said in a jingle. "Sup Spidey?"
Spidey was nonplussed. "Oh you know, just trying to catch dinner."
"I thought you ate babies?"
"Jameson's dream," Spidey corrected. "And yours. Maybe. If you've turned on me. Have you, Johnny? Is nothing sacred?"
Johnny mimicked the churlish, high-society laugh. "Oh, Spider-Man, poor Spidey. I'm sorry if you ever thought I was your friend. I was the one that ratted you out, you know."
Spidey cocked his head. "Of course!"
Then they laughed. In unison.
Spidey threw the bamboo fishing rod over the railing and slapped one of the 'hey, long time no see' hugs around Johnny Storm.
This was what they did. It was equal parts honest-to-God friends and abusive relationship.
Once, when they were fighting the Lizard in the old Hong Kong Kowloon Shipping Warehouse in the village, the not-so-himself-Dr-Connors had made a joke along the lines of Spidey being Storm's hetero life partner. Indignant, Storm had grabbed the Lizard, flown him to the roof, burned his damn scales off in the process, beat the everlasting tar out of him and then said "How dare you presume Spidey and I are an item. I can do way better!"
In that order.
So that was that. If it weren't for previous engagements and Johnny Storm's contractual immortality on the Fantastic Four, Spidey had, in another life, expressed a desire for a team-up. Old school, professional or kinda-fake-because-of-those-speedos-and-who-does-Ric-Flair-think-he-is wrestling.
Yeah.
They were leaning against the railing now, mirroring each other's stance: one leg bearing most of their weight, the other held behind as a prop. Arms folded across respective chests, holding up their chins in that longing, greeting card way.
Freakishly alike.
If it wasn't so painfully obvious, Spider-Man had, covertly, gone to great lengths to make it seem otherwise. He couldn't be Johnny Storm. Couldn't even come close. They served the same ends now but it wasn't always that way.
Parker couldn't afford to have friends. Couldn't afford to be like Johnny Storm, except when the suit allowed it. When he was Spider-Man, he wasn't Parker.
Duh.
But true enough.
When he wasn't Parker.
He was happy.
He was free.
"You wanna talk about it?" Johnny asked.
"What?"
"Well," Johnny said, "way I hear, you got a nice shiner from Osborn couple of days ago."
Spidey sighed. "Maybe the better question is, do you want to hear about it?"
"You know how I live vicariously through you, Pete."
Another sigh. "He strung me up in his tower, tortured me, and then he shot me in the head. Did I mention that he shot me? Because that's important. Didn't want you to forget. Oh, and he knocked up my best friend's fiancé. Or so I'm told. That's probably important, too."
"Well," Johnny said and took the opportunity of silence to search for the right words. For once. "That's just disgusting."
A scoff this time. "I'll say. Anyway, how are you?"
"I dunno," Johnny shrugged. "Same old same old? Trips to here, there and yon. Reed's gone all 'Beautiful Mind' on us again."
"Beating up the good Doctor?"
"I freaking wish. Giving Doom what-for always used to be Ben's thing, but I'd give your left kidney to stroll into Latveria and get in on it. How sad is that? I miss fighting Dr Doom. I miss it! God..."
"Shit happens?" Spidey shrugged.
Johnny pursed his lips and cast another line. "I dunno, Pete. Maybe I need to get out more. Spice up my nights."
"You're gonna cry over spilt life?"
"Oh you're being melodramatic." Johnny waved him off.
"Am I?"
"Yeah," Johnny said. "I think, somewhere, deep down, old Doomsie does enough crying for all of us." And he chuckled.
Spidey waited a moment. "Well, I'll take this moment to throw a one-man pity party for myself: archenemy, gun, shot, head!"
"Nahh," Johnny said. "You guys were always thick as thieves. You're feeling the burn, but are you surprised?"
"No."
"There ya go, sport."
"So what do I do?"
Johnny's posture straightened and he looked at Spidey, slightly bewildered. "You—you're asking me?"
"Sure," Spidey shrugged.
"I'm not really a good judge of character here, you know? I mean, I tend to hang out with the Real Housewives of New Jersey, Pete. Not exactly the eggheads you spend your nights with." Johnny felt ever so dirty at having used the word 'eggheads' (natch, from the Benjamin J. Grimm English Dictionary). He shivered a bit.
"Yeah, I know," Spidey said. "I can't believe the words are coming out of my mouth, either, but...Johnny...I'm...asking...for...advice. I think."
"You're not going to vomit from saying those words, are you?"
"I might."
"Really?"
Spidey sighed louder this time. "Oh geez, Johnny, come on."
"Alright, alright. You want the Han Solo line or a Johnny Storm original?"
"Han Solo?"
"You know the one. 'Been from one end of the galaxy to the other'? And, uh, so on."
Spidey looked at Johnny with a cocked head for a moment. "How does a schmuck like you know Star Wars?"
"I don't know," Johnny said off-handedly. "I used to date this girl...I'm kinda into Doctor Who now."
"Oh geez..."
Johnny got suddenly serious. Which happened to be his real superpower, in case Spidey would ever forget. "What did you call me out here for, Pete?"
Spidey was silent for a moment. "You're right," he said finally. "I did get shot in the head a few days back, by no less than my archenemy. If this sounds all Venture Bros. for you, then deal. I'm fully aware of the genre and how lame we all are that we get chased around and beaten up by guys that should be paying into the New York Public Employees Retirement by now."
"You're telling me!" Johnny interjected. "How the hell old is that geezer in the vulture suit?"
"I dunno, like ninety. Look, Johnny. My question is this. If I am feeling the burn from Norman—why did I even say it like that, of course I am!—then...how much longer does this last before something really bad happens?"
Johnny hung on it for a moment. He didn't move. His jaw slacked a bit and his eyes tared into the dark distance. Probably, he guessed, maybe, likely, he was staring at what was Hoboken. He shivered again, at that realization, and got back to Parker's query. He cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lips. And had the perfect answer lined up. Slowly, deliberately, with the majesty and seriousness of Charles Kuralt on the road...
"I dunno."
"Jesus Christ, Johnny," Spidey said. Annoyed. He started walking away.
"Oh hey, wait a second, Pete, come on!"
Spidey stopped. And turned back. "Alright, Johnny. Give me something. You see The Tonight Show a few weeks back? Wonder Man going out there and telling Leno we're all screwed because Norman is running the nuthouse now? It's right on the money, okay? We're livin' it. I want to know, Johnny. I'm asking you as a friend. If this is going to end."
Johnny's brow furrowed and he looked like he was actually thinking through an answer. He looked away, at the night and the skyline, and the back to Spidey.
"You up for a story?"
"Sure."
"Couple of years back, there was this thing going on, you might remember it. Tony Stark decided he ran the world and wanted to bring the rest of us onboard, and long story short, I wound up in the hospital because of some cavemen at a Chelsea nightclub—and I know I should have seen it coming, nightclubs in Chelsea and all that--but my point stands. The best part was waking up alone at 3 in the morning and having to call Nurse Ratched for the bedpan."
"I know."
"I know you know," Johnny said. "That's why I'm using the example. I got the everlasting shit beaten out of me by the same kind of people that followed Frankenstein to the windmill in that awful Hugh Jackman movie. I'm saying, Pete—I'm saying two things. One is that life goes on. The other is that it never ends. I figured that out in the hospital, while you and the rest of my iPhone contacts went all First Blood on each other. You asked me if Norman Osborn playing bumper pool with the rest of the world ends sometime."
Spidey said, "And?"
"Ordinarily, I'd say no."
"So it is another day at the races for you?"
Johnny scoffed. "Not really, no, you should've seen your friend Osborn burst into the Building last week like he owned the place. Ben didn't like being told how high to jump, if you get me. Not sure he really can jump, but yeah. Anyway, your friend Norman's just another idjit with his finger on the button. Sorry if this seems like another typical day for me, but I gotta be honest, it sort of is."
"Normal is how he gets his claws around you."
"Then his reach, as Reed would say, exceeds his grasp," Johnny said. He was serious again, and his features were too. The hair fluttered a bit in the breeze and the eyes didn't move from Spidey's.
The Human Torch put his hand out, and Spidey shook it.
"When your poker buddy decides he really does run the world...we'll take him down."
"Yeah?"
"Sure," Johnny said. "Tell you what. He loses it by next Friday, I owe you a Coke."
Newport, Rhode Island.
Frank Castle.
It was 4 a.m. and he'd been perched on the roof opposite the brownstone for hours hoping to get a chance. To take the shot.
To plug one right between Parker Robbins' googly-goddamned-eyes.
It hadn't taken much, or long, to track Robbins here. Part of the nice thing about super villains is that they keep making the same mistakes. Keep giving you chances to fuck them up. Like juvie drug runners except less completely regoddamntarded.
It was also the case that it had taken about twelve seconds of waterboarding the freaking Enforcers.
All the Enforcers.
To get the location of Parker Robbins' last game in town. Which turned out to be an oddly-placed condo in downtown fucking high-end Rhode Island.
Who's he been getting kickbacks from?
We know that already, Frank.
Parker Robbins had also seen fit to resurrect a legion of Castle's old nemeses and get them to hunt down Frank or face certain death. Again.
It was a goddamn stupid plan. And even more goddamned stupid of Robbins to not look in plain sight what he was tearing himself up for looking all over Manhattan.
Poor fucking Parker, Frank thought. Guys like you wouldn't've lasted a goddamn junkyard minute.
Robbins' penthouse was on the top floor of a downtown brownstone. The kind with huge ceiling-high windows with the Frank Lloyd Wright overlapping Prairie-style panes at the corners. Artsy. Bold. Stupid.
Robbins was in the middle of the room, meditating, as Frank brought him into the sight.
When Robbins opened his eyes, Frank's brow furled and he got halfway through a "what the fuck—" before Robbins appeared on the ledge of the building.
Frank brought the sniper rifle up again and Robbins batted it away with a bestial claw.
Frank brought out his sidearm and got a shot in on Robbins shoulder, before that was batted away too.
"You've been busy," Robbins said in an oddly-misplaced human voice.
"You've been trying to kill me," Frank said.
Robbins regarded him a moment longer, then said, "With good reason."
"You work for Norman Osborn."
"Possibly. You work for Nick Fury."
Jesus. Now they're really misinformed.
"I work for me," Frank said. "And while it's on my mind, tell your zombie goons they're goddamn failures. That's why they died in the first place. Didn't have the heart, insofar as criminals like you do, anyway."
Robbins' eyes narrowed and glowed demonic for a second.
"Castle the Philosopher," he condescended. "Hand over your ammo and weapons. Come in from the cold."
"No deal," Frank said and pulled his left-sidearm and pressed it right into Robbins' forehead. Robbins was powerful to have stopped it but didn't. He instead brought his own weapon up and jammed the end gently into Frank's chin. "I'm gonna count to three. Then you're gonna become the saddest piece of shit Norman Osborn ever hired."
"Wait," Robbins said. His expression didn't change and his eyes stayed pathologically still on Frank's own. "Put the gun down."
"No."
"I wasn't kidding. Come in, Frank."
"What?"
"In thirty minutes, Norman Osborn's global operations will cease. This is your chance to not get eaten alive by a fucking demon. If that sweetens the deal at all."
"No."
"Trust me," Robbins said and meant it. "A new order's on its way. One that could use you."
Avengers Tower.
Norman Osborn.
He was sitting at Tony Stark's old spot in the conference room, staring downtable at the giant mural of Avengers on the west wall. Staring. Contemptuously. Who did they think they were? Recently he'd begun to believe his own myth. That he ran the world and was within his rights to do and to think so.
Stark? Not so much.
Stark's reach exceeded his grasp.
Osborn shot out a quick little snort and his intercom buzzed. He tapped it lightly, and Victoria Hand's voice came over the other end.
"Sir, you have a call."
"From who?" His face contorted. Anyone who would call him was already in the building or on the HAMMER cruiser.
"We don't know," she said and sounded worried. "The encryption's a mile long and he wouldn't identify himself."
A man, Osborn thought with a piqued eyebrow. He thought a moment more and took a deep breath.
He wouldn't...
"Pipe it through, Victoria. On-screen. And kill the cameras in this conference room."
She simply said, "Acknowledged."
He stood and straightened his jacket and ran one hand through his hair. Downtable, the painting of Avengers dissolved into a viewscreen showing static.
The benefits of nanofiber technology. Courtesy of Oscorp, of course.
Then the static gave way to a familiar face.
Osborn's heart sank and he felt blood rush to his face. He clenched his jaw and bared his teeth a bit.
Dr Doom was the face in the viewscreen. He looked like the Holbein portrait of Henry VIII: standing triumphantly against a vastly anachronistic background. An old Italian tapestry that alternated between mustard gold and deep blue hung behind him in what appeared to be an unused vestry.
"Norman." Doom said it simply enough.
Osborn thought the first-naming uncharacteristic and noted the possibility of a Doombot.
"Victor," Osborn said. "What is it? And why did you bother to go through the usual channels?"
"Doom does not hide," the Lord of Latveria intoned. "I have contacted you for one reason alone."
"What's that?"
"As our Ms Frost mentioned in our assembly yesterday, someone means to betray you. I have ascertained his identity and, in the interest of keeping safe your position, am willing to share it with you in exchange for certain political concessions."
Osborn scoffed and sat down, reclining and crossing one leg over the other. "Victor," he said. "If someone was planning to sell me out, I'd have known about it. I just put one of my Avengers in place for almost letting the cat out of the bag. Whatever you have to tell me, I'm willing to bet I already know it."
"So certain are you?"
"Yeah," Osborn said. Callow.
"Very well," Doom said. He looked dark for a moment, before the image faded away.
Osborn felt his stomach wrench again. What does he know?
He sat forward and pressed the intercom for Victoria.
"Victoria," he said and gave it enough of an edge to catch her notice. No response. "Hand"—this one was more forceful. No response. He stood and went from zero to lip-out in a blink. "Damn it, Victoria, answer me!"
"She's not going to answer you, Norman."
He spun around in place.
The voice belonged to Emma Frost. Standing there just inside the open window. Namor floated in to join her a moment later and they both locked on Osborn.
"What the hell is this?!" Osborn barked.
Emma Frost bowed her head slightly so the afternoon sun cast a shadow over her and her Atlantean paramour. She looked...sinister. Dedicated. She didn't move, and neither did Namor. They just stood there.
Stood there as the double-doors behind Osborn flew open, kicked in by a squad of HAMMER agents. Stood there as the agents surrounded both Osborn and the mutant duo. Stood there as the agents levelled plasma-rifles on them.
Osborn backstepped out of the circle, smiling thinly and cocking his head to one side as was his custom.
"Emma, if this is a coup, it's a lazy one."
She raised an eyebrow. And then she was a diamond.
The HAMMER agents turned their weapons away from Namor and Emma. Slowly. In unison. The synchronized shooting team from Hell.
And aimed them at Osborn.
His expression shifted instantly, and he repeated, back at the instantly-pissed level: "What the hell is this?! Stand down, soldiers!"
Namor, still hovering, said calmly, pathologically, "They're no longer your soldiers, Norman."
Osborn bared his teeth. "Namor, you son of a bitch! I gave you what you wanted! I upheld the bargain!"
"The King of Atlantis," he said and hovered toward Osborn, "always makes contingencies."
One of the agents moved forward with anodized black handcuffs in one hand.
Osborn was struggling to compose himself. He pulled his BlackBerry form his pocket, pressed a button and barked into it. "Bob! Sentry! Get down here, we're in trouble."
"He can't hear you, Norman," Namor said. "The building's communication network has been shut down. EMP."
"It is a coup!" he yelled and pointed an accusatory finger at Namor. "And you're the one responsible for it! You and your little mutant whore! I should've known better than to trust you! You bunch of sycophants and psychos!" He yelled into his BlackBerry again. "Avengers! Assemble!" No response. More panicked: "Get your asses in here!"
Osborn was cut off by the sound of a door closing. A simple 'click' from behind him. The sound of a door closing.
He spun in place again. And there they were.
Daken, in his brown Wolverine suit, crumpling the mask in one hand. His eyes were sunken and his mouth turned down in a dour sort of determination.
Gargan, in the symbiote. As the symbiote intended itself to be. A foot taller than everyone else in the room, impractically large muscles. White streaks where eyes would have been, thin slivers for fangs, and a prodigiously elongate and reptilian tongue slithering from one side of the razor fangs to the other.
And Bullseye. In his Bullseye suit. Arms crossed, leaning against the doorjamb, holding an Ace of Spades in one of those hands and smiling like a goddamn rat fink.
"Sorry, Norms," Bullseye said. "But not really."
"Lester, you—"
"He's yours, Mac, sic him."
Venom grew another foot in size and breadth and mammoth black claws wrapped themselves around Osborn's shoulders. Then he picked up Osborn and brought him in for closer scrutiny.
"Mac," Osborn said suddenly quiet. Pleading. "Mac, please."
"Sorry," Gargan said in a voice that was not his own. "Your friends made a tender offer we couldn't refuse." More guttural. More...inhuman. "You're out, Norman."
Norman's brow furrowed. And it hit him with astonishing quickness and clarity.
He was sold out. Not even by Moonstone.
It was all of them. They were all out to get him. From day goddamn one.
He had lost before he even got started.
Mistake number one was thinking they could all get along, or at least work together in a non-murderous capacity for a few weeks.
Mistake number two was trusting...
"Oh God..."
Venom set Osborn back down.
Osborn turned around. And there he was, standing where Emma and Namor had been a moment ago.
Doom. In the flesh. So to speak.
At the centre of a row of people all staring Osborn right in the face. Individuals who were in a better place to negotiate now than they'd ever been. And all because he'd seen fit to include them, in one way or another, in his new order.
Emma, with Namor hovering behind her. A couple of Atlanteans with broad gold tridents behind him. The Mole-Man, snivelling behind the folds of Doom's cape, with a few of his gaunt moloids doing the same. Loki, looking luxuriant in the spectacle, with Baldur on one side of her and on the other The Hood, with Madame Masque further afield.
Doom stepped forward
"Look upon the face of your betrayer," the Lord of Latveria thundered. "And surrender..."
Continued...