Otto Octavius is truly an ugly, ugly man monster thing without his glasses. That pudding bowl thing he's had going on since I first went up against him way back in 1987 just dosen't work. It'd sort of work if he wasn't so fat. The bruises don't do a lot either, and the white tux/lab coat he uses to replace the green and orange tights he used to waddle around in is stained dirty grey from the half hour or so he's been at this. I'd be tempted to say he's seen better days, but I'd be lying and with the whole superhero thing I have to tell more than I feel comfortable with.
Metallo isn't really a fair comparison when his organic body is apparently hamburger meat and he insists on the skull head look. While the silver metal shows no emotion other than that deaths head grin ( at least its not as wide as Ultron's, I could never take that seriously even after he committed one of the largest acts of genocide of the twentieth century) I think it's safe to say he's as surprised as Ock. After all, does any other super hero team enter with the one who can fly towing the other on a pair of web skis? I think not.
"Hey guys, either of you got a camera? If my lovely assistant here drops me or runs my privates into a parking meter, we'll be swimming in America's Funniest Home Video's gold!"
"Is now really the time?"
I hear the smile through the baritone.
"It's all about the look on their faces."
"Fair enough."
He starts to slow, so I take that as my cue. I let go of the anchoring webline, back flipping onto the top of an SUV (there's a ridiculously cute Garfield 'Baby on board' sticker plastered on it that would depress the hell out of me if I wasn't in a state of such absolute fear that an episode of Sienfeild would have me laughing like a hysterical lunatic).
Octavius and Corbin, having reduced about half the surrounding area into a more sanitary version of the Jersey turnpike, were facing each other down like charging bulls before me and the big guy showed up. In hindsight we probably could have let them clobber each other and saved ourselves the trouble. But where's the fun in that?
"Corben." The big guy rumbles, "Dr Octavius. I'm going to ask once. The streets will be full of SCU units in mere minutes." He goes on in that voice, not the calm baritone that sounds like Sunday church and mom's apple pie but not a threatening Daredevil Put the gun down or I'll shatter every bone in you're little rat ass style growl. I realize he's actually trying to reason with them.
"You're a smart man doctor. Do the math. You're on unfamiliar turf, your still bleeding from where Metallo tried to cut you're head open with your own metallic arms, and I haven't even thought about touching my JLA signal device and I already have all the help I'll need to get you off these streets."
Oh.
Wow.
Take that Justice League! Although come to think of it, I have been a Reserve Avenger for an awfully long time…
"You are right alien…"
There's a venomous hiss in Octavius' voice that almost matches the mad metallic sound of his tentacles gearing up.
"…I am an intelligent man."
And then he does the most stupid thing I've ever seen anyone do. He strikes the big guy head on with all four arms. There's a sound like two diamonds scraping off each other, and the big guy moves back about an inch.
The look on Ock's face when he realizes that was so he could back up to get a firmer grip on all four limbs rather than the impact is one that I shall forever return to once I make a copy from my camera. Which is out of harms way on a building ledge zoomed in on us. At first I didn't think Supes would actually agree to my proposal to hang back and whip up the web skis (hey, it freaks out Ock, and gives me the excuse to secure the thing while his back is turned) but he actually went for it. Okay, so this means I get shots of us gliding in from the back. But it also means I get the perfect money shot of Octavius getting that unbelievably overweight ball he calls an ass handed to him by the most powerful being on and off the planet.
I think I'll get it framed. Maybe I'll make a set. See, the big guy picks Ock up by all four arms, and flexes, sending a wave of motion up the things like the world's weirdest looking slinky. Then, as the doctor vibrates on the other end like a tuning fork made out of lard, he slams him into the ground with another flex. One, two, three, just like that. Yeah, I think I'll get 'em all framed. It's a thing of beauty really.
There's a kind of smell, like ozone and burning rubber, underlined with a faint hum. Not my Spider Sense, which is going off. Like a generator starting up. Charging. For a shot.
The words "Look out!" are out of my mouth a second after I've fired a web line at Metallo's foot, tugging with enough force to uproot a Canadian redwood. The night goes green for a split second as a blast of pure Kryptonite radiation roars out of his chest, making him look like some sort of God awful star in the after glow. A God awful star I just tipped on his ass. To save the greatest hero the universe has ever known.
Eat it Midtown High chess club! You too New York Driving Academy! I can too make split second decisions on the fly!
Okay we seem to have done the whole Trade Your Rouges Gallery Like Trading Cards thing so I figure I'll actually try and make myself useful, leaping up and twisting as I go, firing almost as much webbing as I have in the shooters straight down at him and hoping it'll be enough to keep him pinned to the road like a squirrel on an interstate highway. For good measure (and because I know this stuff stops and starts like a guy going to the bathroom in the morning when it comes to actually working on these morons) I ram both feet down into his skull face…feeling them go numb as it vanishes into the tarmac.
"You stinking…!"
"What, did I forget to wash my booties?"
He may have a point. I mean, I run across rooftops in these things. They don't really have soles because anything too thick wouldn't allow me to get a grip on a surface. You would not believe what people leave on rooftops. Seriously. You would not. After patrolling through Yancy Street…yeesh. Taking them off after getting home is like a dam bursting in your nose. Wouldn't Daredevil or Wolverine say something? Well, Matt's nose is insanely intense. I'm pretty sure he'd say something. But Wolverine isn't that subtle, and Matt's a polite guy when he dosen't have to break his cane over someone's head. But Wolverine smokes those stinky cigars, how can he smell anything at all? Then again I don't know the difference in intensity between Wolverine and Daredevil's noses. Do my feet stick so much they could rust the tin man from hell? He doesn't have a nose, how would he know? Ah, screw what he thinks. He's crazy.
Crazy strong. He does that whole "Angry Noise!" thing guys like the Hulk and the Juggernaut do when they want to really smash stuff, pulling the ground he's webbed to up with him, sending shrapnel bouncing in every direction except the one I'm loitering in as he snaps the stuff open.
His feet make a tap-dancing click as they smash the ground underneath him, shooting forward like a bullet out of a gun. Actually not so much, because I've dodged plenty with hardly any blood in my body and missing five weeks of sleep. This is a Rhino kind of charge. Rhino with a jet up his ass. Never dodged one of those before. Won't find out if I can today because Metallo vanishes into a cloud of dust that erupts further down the street. Maybe I saw a flash of red and blue seconds before, but for the first time since Uncle Ben hired that magician to show up at my sixth birthday party, I don't go trying to solve the magic. Under the booming sounds I hear something. A familiar metallic sound behind me, but I don't turn around.
"Hey Doc."
"You really think he'll make a difference? The alien? He won't. No one will once I have that Kryptonite, once I master the atom. No one! Especially not you!"
"You mind? In the middle of watching street theatre here."
There are several things I love about planet Earth. One is Aunt May. Another is Mary Jane. Yet another is Aunt May's patented wheat cakes. Just below that, right between Venom getting a life and leaving me alone and Norman Osborne getting arrested for tax evasion, is that high pitched little angry pig noise Doc Ock makes when he's really angry. The incredible Hulk, he ain't.
Spider Sense flashes and I'm perched on a street lamp before his arms eviscerate where I was standing. Barely.
"Don't blink!"
I go for broke, pulling out the old Web the eyes trick. Must be the oldest trick in my short book of cheap shots, right in front of Leap all over the enemy punching them so they can't punch me. I honestly would never count on this to do anything if it hadn't worked back when I was still new to the game and facing off with Ock for the second time, his arms around my waist trying to crush me like an organic soda can, and his face just open enough for me to fire off a clear shot of web in pure desperation.
It's worked on and off ever since. Now is the latter, one of those tentacles slashing across the air in front of his face and getting snagged in my web line. Ock's a fast learner. So am I. I put all my weight into my arms, reeling the thing back before it can yank me off my perch, while pushing down with my feet to get a stronger grip on it, trying to play the immovable object. And then let go.
I bounce off his face (smacking him in the nose is the most satisfying thing I, as a crime fighter/hot blooded American male living in a democracy which promotes the freedom of God's green earth to all men, can experience) and tumble into a crouch right in front of him before leaping forward. Got to make my mind up, shot to the chest or kick to the crotch.
I don't get the chance, Spider Sense going off just a second too late for me to realize I'm not moving fast enough to be completely out of Ock's arm range…
He must be mad, the impact sends me down the street like a crash test dummy. If I was like Iron Fist or Shang Chi or any of those fancy pants martial artists I'd roll with it or something, but I'm not, so I don't. I do manage to ram my hand down into the ground with enough force to push me right side up, snagging another street light as I go. I spin around it, building momentum, then let go mid Spider Sense blast, hurtling forward just as he smashes the spot where I was spinning.
"Eight ball, corner pocket!"
He tries to pull the arms back in, but I snap both legs out to knock the two that are there out of the way, flipping back over to hold both my fist together. Angle a little so I ram him with my shoulder at about 40 miles per hour, then swing them both into the side of that mass of carved fat he calls his right ear while he's still reeling. For good measure, suction both hands onto his chest as we tumble down (that sounds far more disgusting than I could ever mean it to) so my weight is still pushing him down as we land. Nothing like a couple of shots to the other guys ribs to keep him from breaking yours.
"You can take the spider out of New York, but you can't take the New Yorker out of the spider. That, my friend, was how they say hello in Hell's Kitchen!"
Thanks Matt.
For nothing. Sidewalk shatters as I dodge one tentacle only to have another say goodbye in the Bronx to my spine. I leave a nice ass shaped dent in a car door. I'm not there to admire my handy work too long, and the hood takes the Ock shot meant for me, leaving one of those grooves that can only come from a pile of adamantaium metal backed up by the raging will power of a forty seven year old fat guy. Technically in eBay terms I think that means we both autographed it.
Two options here; (A) web his pants and pull them down to solve that great riddle of the ages Is Ock a briefs or boxers guy? or (B) listen to my Spider Sense and duck the street light lance coming at us Hawkeye style?
I go with (B), and get to watch the kinda but not really too satisfying sight of Ock getting pelted with about half of the Metropolis free way through cracked car window. See , I'm fast enough to vault over the roof and behind the right hand side of the thing before this stuff hits, whether its coming from the big guy or Metallo I don't know. Neither does Ock and he clearly can't.
He can see my enjoying a pounding at his expense however. The arms come from all sides. I dodge two thanks to my Spider Sense, but one snags me by the spider emblem, another by the ankle. It's a painful ride through the car to come face to face with the worst case of adult acne on the planet. I'd say something, but I may have a concussion right on top of my funny bone…thingy.
This isn't the first time I've been in this position, clamped in the grip of something that could tare a sheet of titanium and make ten different kinds of origami shapes out of it. Eleven if said something is particularly dainty. Fortunately every kind of freak show I've gone up against dosen't have the brain cells to count the lack of brain cells that prevents them from doing that. But all Scorpion or Ox or Dragon Man or Wrecker have to do once they get a grip on me (which is more difficult than managing to stretch your muscles down the back of the couch to pick up the remote) is close their eyes, concentrate their hardest, tear me down the middle, muscle, tissue, organs, bones and all, and make a whish.
Now look at Octavius. Four metallic arms with a reach of about twenty four feet and more flexible than the standards of a fraternity college girl, meaning he could technically rape me while rearranging my spine into a tuning fork. And does he, a man who supposedly graduated from Harvard (I'm not entirely sure that's accurate. I think I'd be freaked out if he went to ESU. Or Midtown High for that matter. Eew.) do this? No.
He throws me.
He throws me ass first into a moving van, so in his defence there's room to achieve the same effect.
"Ungh, ouch, argh, crap, gah, oh jeez…!"
Did you know Metropolis tarmac tastes different from New York tarmac? Because it does. I may actually vomit now to symbolize my homesickness. That and it feels like my kidney and my pancreas are trying to get hitched in my lower intestine. And now those little burning waves on my ass, which can only be bruises, start itching.
"Ow."
I recognise the click right next my head immediately. Can't be a superhero and not recognise the sound of a cocking gun.
Did that sound weird to anyone else or is it just how messed up my head is after the Ock express?
"Stand up slowly with yer mandibles behind yer head, bug boy."
Mandibles? Gross. And who the hell uses "Yer" in a sentence? Only Ben Grim has any sort of official, if not God given, right to use of that word because he's awesome. Okay, Wolverine, Absorbing Man, all of the Wrecking Crew except maybe Thunderball, Rhino, Scorpion, Bullseye and a bunch of other guys I've fought with (including Wolverine) talk like that, but one's Canadian so its better than "Eh" and the other's have a pre school education.
This guy probably shares that (not the Canadian thing) because you do not point a gun at a guy with the proportionate…oh wait I'm from out of town. He dosen't know the speal. Ah screw it…
I go ten stories just for show, triple patented Spidey style summersault with an extra bend to my spine to show I don't need no stinking mandibles, snagging the gun from his hand with a web line as I go. I land behind him and idly remove the magazine the way Matt taught me once by accident, tossing the empty lump of metal to him to top it off. Total time elapsed…ten seconds since the full stop of his last sentence. And that's because I came back down slowly.
"Nice tour guide etiquette, really getting a feel for native hospitality over here. Next time I'll jab a fork in my eye and get Lex Luthor to sign it. That'll be better than t-shirts for all my friends. Say, you don't happen to have any silver ware on you right now, huh?"
"I got yer silver ware right here buddy boy!"
Oh good Lord…
I get a better look at him as he swings at me, a right hook so old fashioned there may actually be baby dinosaurs growing on it. Fat in kind of a miny Wilson Fisk way, balding, wearing one of those Dum Dum Dugan style hats and a face that's honest to God the same colour as Jameson's when I suggest that ,hey, maybe these photos of me getting my ass handed to my by the Frightful Four And A Half are worth more than half a dish washer's salary.
His fist has that bare knuckle street fighter look, areas of raw pink blended perfectly into Caucasian skin colour. His clenched jaw curls up slightly, not smiling or anything, but like a giant cigar should be stashed there. One probably was until he decided to go pointing guns at people.
"I give you a five for the hat, a ten for spunk, but zero for style. For future reference it goes like this…"
In the past couple of hours I've had jet lag, train cramp, arrived at a party just in time to miss all the good food, had a building dropped on me by a rabid cyborg, and thrown at stuff by a fat guy with a bad hair cut and a sea food fetish. Forgive me if I put a little extra sparkle into cleaning this guys clock. He goes down backwards, head coming to rest at the foot of the van responsible for my twanging ass.
"Overall, nice form but don't call us, we'll call…"
Then I spot the letters printed big and bold for morons on the side of the van.
SCU.
Oh crap.
New York started up things like Damage Control and Code Blue back around the mid nineties when just about all of meta humanity had set up shop somewhere around the city. About half of Gotham's tax dollars supposedly go into funding Anti Arkham Asylum Escapee divisions, to little success. Central and Keystone City compare notes on how to deal with any and all Rouges other than letting really, really fast guys do all the work. Its become standard in many centres of vigilante (superhuman or otherwise) activity to actually have people to deal with it all, or at least give the police chiefs someone to yell at when they get yelled at by the mayor because the voters are yelling at him. Metropolis has the Special Crimes Unit , one of the best and long lasting in the business.
And I just punched out one of their officers.
Spider Sense. Another click.
"Back away, and on the ground. Now."
Female. Voice hard as titanium reinforced nails. Calm. Like Captain America before he kicks some terrorist ass. Meaning she's pissed. And probably armed with a big gun. Nice.
Jean DeWolf used to talk like that.
"Would it help if I said that I am not of this world and on my planet knocking people unconscious is a form of marriage proposal?"
"No."
"Good, because it's not."
DeWolf wouldn't have bought that either. I turn slowly to see down the barrel of the nice big gun the woman behind me has pointed at my skull. Really big. Doubt Metallo would care. I on the other hand…
"Uh, I'm with Superman?"
Cocked eye brow. She's probably sceptical because that's how you survive as someone who goes toe to toe with guys in masks everyday. I don't like it but I understand it. Me and the NYPD never quite developed the greatest working relationship. Probably not going to happen here unless the big guy vouches for me, but seeing as how I just smacked down one of her men it can't hurt to try and make better impression. Other than the one I left on her windscreen.
"Octavius and you aren't in the same crowd?"
"Nope."
"Media says different."
Okay, low blow. She probably dislikes us "Glory seeking vigilantes" about as much as she hates the typical tabloid vultures like those guys over at the Daily Globe (like holier than thou Eddie Brock never broke up a celebrity marriage), but still a low blow.
"This from a cop. Bugle reader?"
The gun stays on my chest There's a groan behind me, muffled cursing.
"Now and then."
Oh joy.
"Then you can read all about me and Superman taking on the nasty cyborg."
Snarky. Not the best way to go…but her expression falters. Fast as a lightning flash, but I saw it. Best thing about this mask: it may be hot, it may stick to my face when I'm sweaty in the summer, it may have itched and caught in my mouth the first time I tried it on, I may have actually thrown up in it during some of my worst fights, but its still full face. The ultimate poker face in red and black with big freaky eyes. Her guns still on me though, eyes to. But she's focusing on something behind me.
"You okay Dan?"
"Oh I'm gonna be…"
I jump over his tackle, twisting out of the way of the round the blonde fires at me half way up. I find myself surrounded as I land. Guys in kevlar and high tech looking SWAT gear. The entire S.C.U. I should be flattered, except I'm not.This is getting stupid. Okay, she's a Bugle reader but come on, I was just towed in on a pair of web skies by the personification of Truth and Justice. The big guy's blatantly here for Metallo, how can I not be here for Ock?
Where is Ock anyway?
Spider Sense. Shadow falling over blonde, Dan and me. He's about ten miles down the street, tossing SUVs at us. A grand total of three to be exact. A familiar Garfield sticker smiles out at me from behind a looming windscreen like Death decided to get all pleasant and offer me a crumpet before sending me off to wherever I'm about to go. He (or she rather) is going to be disappointed.
The S.C.U squad has scattered (something about assuming "crash positions") except for the two anti New Yorkers. Blonde'll be easy if I can ditch the excess weight of her gun, it's her partner and his gut that's going to be the problem. There's only so much you can do with Spider Strenght. Fear and a tendency to try and prevent any and all people in the general vicinity being crushed by cars helps. Great power don't fail me now.
A flex of my fancy feet to get them working and I'm moving. Snag Baldy by the vest with my right hand, scoop Blonde up in my right arm and sprint. Crouch, and …jump! A wall of metal and spinning rubber hurtles underneath us, another booming overhead. I duck a little to avoid a wheel that's suddenly the size of Namor's ego, pulling Baldy in closer so his hand dosen't get pulverized by an oncoming door mirror. I ram my feet off a street lamp to slow us down, leaving me with less impact to disburse as we finally hit street level again.
Spider Sense again and I throw them clear. I'd move to avoid the arm that smacks me into the rear of the still vibrating SUV but I'm not that big on multitasking. Also I may be a masochist; I don't know why but does this entire night sound like the sort of night a guy married to a supermodel should be having? Then there's the spandex, and to the big guy's credit that outfit is cool and all but kinda…yeah.
But then again people who say that probably haven't seen it up close. After being saved from certain death.
Speaking of which that throw upy feeling is back. I've had this a bunch of times over my career, last time was either from a gas bomb from the Taskmaster, gut punch from Venom, that one time Ock and the Sinister Six (and Hobgoblin. Sorry, the Goblins just never featured in my idea of the Six at all. Even that ugly Ghostbusters/Jim Henson thing Jason McNidale mutated into) got together with a bunch of Hydra hardware and that poor retarded Godzilla movie rip off Gog and almost blew The Fantastic Four, Deathlock, the Hulk, Ghost Rider, Solo, Nova and little old me (I think Sleepwalker was there two for about five seconds) to Hell along with most of New York.
"These fools can't help you arachnid! Nothing will, especially not the alien!"
"Well listen to little miss sunshine…"
Seems Otto's secure in his masculinity. It's not often he resorts to actually using his flesh and blood arms to try and strangle me, manly spittle splashing off my mask lenses. Uh… wow, yeah, his hands are stronger than you'd think. Not muscle, but his fat swells up around my Adam's apple and tires to force it out my mouth. That dosen't sound nice because its not, and I don't want to actually see what my Adam's apple looks like. Super strenght and adrenaline wind up in the weirdest places, in my case my right knee and both feet after I've jerked it into Octavius' gut. The force of my feet sends him hurtling into a street light and down the street. Two arms ram into the road, catching him and not stopping this whole stupid thing by him getting KO'd off the tarmac. He's couching like hell though, so I'll take what victory I can get until he goes down.
A series of clicks like metal twigs snapping echo from amongst the wreckage. The glint of Sawyer's weapon dances off my mask lenses with a strangely grim speckled glint of beauty. It dosen't blind me to what might happen here as her fellow officers follow her lead. What will happen if I don't open my mouth.
No problem.
"No good. His arms are too fast. He'll stay on the move, block 'em, maybe even use the ricochet against you. You won't get any further with tear gas either. Instant whirlwind."
Sawyer bites her lip (wonder if she does that a lot), glances over the top of the truck. A SCU officer hurtles over head, crash helmet the only thing between him and shards of bone through the brain.
"I know him. Let me go."
"You were going to do it anyway, right?"
"Yeah. Just thought I'd ask first."
I take off in a flat out run, head bowed towards Octavius. Normally this kind of thing would guarantee me not having a head anymore and the doctor having a shiny new human skull ash tray. But Ock's still groggy, hunched over and down to wheezing, arms curled inward, possibly protectively. I change to a zigzag with added cartwheels and summersaults keeping him guessing. I'm almost close enough to see those bulbous fish eyes under the lab worker sunglasses: which ways he coming from, which ways he coming from? Hit the spida-a-a, wina prize!
I figure an octopus is worth a pretty good twenty.
I score ten with a right hook, another ten with a left jab. The sudden spasm of metal all around me send me off my feet, but I turn it into a flip, managing to fire off a snap kick to that upside down Tiramisu dish that is his skull before I land. After that it's cat and mouse down the street and away from the SCU.
I hear the metallic slithering of his tentacles as he follows me, Spider Sense ringing at either that or the far off sound of gun fire trailing behind us. I don't know if they're shooting at me or him, but we're moving too fast for it to be much of a problem.
"Enjoying the view?" I shake my ass a little, just to get the point across. Hey, I have a nice ass and sometimes I need to feel good about myself. Deal with it.
Ock dosen't. Roaring, he grabs me by the throat from behind, sends me reeling back, then throws me like a primary colored football into the side of an abandoned taxi, the impact tipping it over so I get out of the remains and hit a fire hydrant ass first.
"My ass…my beautiful ass…"
"Die!"
He's looming over me in seconds. It takes me less to nail his glasses with a double barrel web shot. It actually sends him tottering (I never really had occasion to use that word before) backwards, arms dragging along the asphalt as they struggle to find purchase. He actually manages to get it off before I land a haymaker so powerful I almost dislocate my arm. I may have unintentionally broken his jaw, but that's not a bad thing.
(1) He's out.
(2) For a guy who hates how much I use my mouth, he hasn't worn out his telling me that yet.
I spread my arms wide as Turpin arrives, tailed by some straggling S.C.U troops and their now unnecessary guns.
"Ta-Da!"
He tips back the brim of his hat a little, looking down at Octavius face, propped upright by the fact he's lying on his stomach, sprawled in a kind of sideways position, arms limp. He lost his glasses after I tagged him, but while his eyes are closed his mouth is open and he may be drooling a little.
"Ya did good bug man."
"Arachnid."
"Say what?"
I shrug.
"Sorry, I sneezed. So is this the usual night for you guys?"
He grins, swivelling his cigar to the other side of his mouth.
"Yep."
A trail of apartment blocks miles away on the horizon buckle, dust and smoke rolling out across the distant streets, the boom audible even from over here. Turpin's grin vanishes as we both turn to follow the streaking trail of blue headed for the trembling buildings.
"That too?"
"Yep."
"Then show me the ropes…if you can keep up."
I leap, swinging in a way that dosen't quite favour my right arm. Maybe I did dislocate it a little. Stop building falling over, kiss boo boo later. Below I hear the sounds of sirens, but I'm outdistancing them already, and with a guy like Corbin this fight is sure to move away from here and maybe further into the city. Wonder how many units they can actually spare for this kind of thing. It's too much to hope the big guy already put him down.
I'm guessing no such luck as I swing low to grab one guy before he gets crushed by a flying piece of rubble, dumping him into a fleeing crowd of people before hauling on the line to gain some altitude and reach the shattered corner of one building. The big guy squats in the middle of it, straightening up to push a decapitated support beam back into place as he goes. I fire a mass of webbing around it to get his hands free, which will help these people a hell of lot more than me and the show biz gimmick I designed in my room at fifteen.
Maybe he nods at me, maybe he dosen't. I don't have much time to think about it as the top floor goes up in flames, the two of us heading towards it as fast as we can. I get there first, jumping through an open window, for all the good it does. Smoke everywhere, all around, in my mask, up my nose. Light dances darkly and brightly off my mask lenses, making it even harder to see anything. The confined roaring is deafening. This is why I hate fires. The big guy dosen't seem to have the same problem, glaring at the fire, into it, as if it flipped him off on the freeway.
"There's people in the apartments next door!"
"I got 'em!"
Gotta love that X ray vision. But I figure there's another power that might work better.
I turn to him in mid sprint, veering left at the buzzing of my Spider Sense to dodge a collapsing section of ceiling.
"After I get them clear, can you blow this thing out?"
He nods, rubble pounding off his shoulders like cascading snow.
"I'm going to spread it among each building, but I need to make sure enough people are out and far enough away! I might put it out but there'll be a lot of glass and a lot weakened structure!"
Man knows his limits. Speaking of which…
I hold off on my two questions until I'm heaving the mother and son out of the remains of their apartment.
"Anyone else in the building?"
"No!
"Great! What happened to Metallo?"
The smile on his face isn't all that nice.
"Tied up and waiting for the S.C.U in the sewers!"
Probably wrapped up in crushed pipes. Crushed sewer pipes. Nasty. I like it. We're out in the clear air now, me rappelling down the side of the building on a web, two passengers cradled in my other arm. The big guy's shoulders tense far over head once we're a the twelfth floor, swelling, a big cartoon breath. There's nothing cartoony about the blast of arctic cold that rams into the fire, crushing it like a cockroach under an ice giant's foot. I see what he meant about holding back. Some of the brickwork and windows cave inward, hurtling into the dying blaze as they ice over. Frozen glass and brick moving at what looks like a hundred and twenty miles an hour, smashing through mortar, plumbing and various appliances…yeah, I can kinda see why he'd hold out on that. We spend the next half hour pulling the same stunts on the other buildings, the big guy lending a hand when there are too many for me to sling out on my own. The rescue crews and the S.C.U catch up, doing crowd control and tending to the lower floors. It goes pretty well, we actually manage to get half way through a third building, but I have this feeling…it'd not jus the fire. But no one's died yet. That's just it, a good thing, but a little too good. Like something's just waiting to go wrong.
But I'm in a building on fire, that's a given.
I turn away from webbing up two tenth floor support beams, putting my shoulder into a door giving a fire fighter and an S.C.U trooper a hard time. I almost collapse into the flaming room as it shatters out of the frame, one hinge spinning into nothing inside the inferno. A family of four crouch in front of the blaze, the mother hunched over the boy and girl as the father presses down on the trigger of a fire extinguisher as far as it will go, foam hurtling into what was their kitchen. I bat a smoking couch away to the far right, giving the professionals enough room to grab the family back to a safer distance. The S.C.U guy actually has to put a handful of shots into the exposed workings of the kitchen sink, sending a blast of water over the entire thing, to get the guy to back off, but not drop the extinguisher. They may need it later. The family gives me this weird look as we back out into the hallway, and it's only then I realise how terrifying my costume must be in this light, orange and dark red with burning silver eyes. I can kind of relate, I'm starting to feel like I'm covered in cooking oil inside this thing.
I veer off to the right as the party is shunted towards the stair well just ahead of the support beams I webbed up. Out there, there's a hole in the wall leading to another, lower series of roofs and a rescue team with a ladder, blankets and plenty of ambulances and other safe people waiting for them. Holding the support beams in place gives them a two hour window, more than enough time and that's the last batch of people the big guy saw on this floor. The fire fighter looks at me as he covers the evacuation.
"Hey, you coming?"
"Just gonna check! Couple of apartments we haven't hit yet!"
He looks like he's weighing his options of either getting the family to safety or make sure the idiot in the mask dosen't get himself killed. The family wins. Like I said, the big guy okayed this floor, but it can't hurt to check. It's getting pretty intense up here, although actual apartments are few since this seems to be more a showroom, or corridor or whatever. Anyway, someone could have gotten in trouble around here, and with the fire picking up like this I won't feel right until I know it's clear.
Light dances madly on the other side of a man sized crack weaving opposite the next apartment door. A low creaking noises echoes out of it, like someone screaming in slow motion. I leap through the gap in the wall, landing in some kind of court like room. Must be the building council's meeting place. Pretty. Shame it's on fire.
"Hello?"
That noise didn't sound like anything human, but creaking rubble could mean an unconscious person trapped underneath, fighting to get out before the rest of the building pours itself down there throat. Still, 'Hello?' sounds like something one of those idiots in a slasher movie does right before the evil hockey mask chainsaw wielder of doom jumps on screen and shouts 'Boo!'. Not a good move for someone reapplying for a physics degree.
"Anyone in here?"
I should probably just strap on a pair of tight jeans and a tighter white shirt to show off my assets and get blood all over. The smoke and flames are too thick to make out much of what's in front of me except city lights through the far side window, if anyone is in here…I don't know. But letting me know would be nice.
My Spider Sense erupts as that sound rolls through the room again, my feet automatically gripping the floor tightly as the carpet sags inward, floorboards snapping underneath it. I'm shaken so much by this, I barely have time to register the metallic shape that bursts out of the floor like angry metal lava out of a fuzzy volcano, clamping a hand around my neck so the shout (not scream!) gurgles half way out of my mouth. I think there's drool on the inside of my mask now. I instantly regret coming up with the idea of Check Every Room In The Flaming Building And Make Sure To Go To The One Room The Angry Killer Cyborg Is Hiding Out In.
Yeah, total blonde moment. Ben (the brother, not the uncle) would be ashamed of me.
"Inseeeeeeect…!" Metallo half snarls, ending in a shout. I'd do the whole correct him bit, but there's the hand thing and I'm too busy panicking anyway. The bright green of those metal eye balls is painful against the dark light of the fire, Metallo pulling me in so close I can see the scratches and chips running across his face. The light glints of some kind of residue lathered all over him and I realise it's either dust or water. There's definitely grime there to. The guy must have climbed his way up here, straight from the sewers.
This close I can smell something almost more chocking than the lump of metal around my throat, the smell of cooking urine.
Eew.
Surreally, the sense memory comes back to me instantly: one time me and Johnny were hunting down poor Curt Connors through the NY sewer system. He made a break for the water which meant we'd have no chance of catching him, so Johnny did the first thing that came to mind. He fried the water at a temperature of about eighty eight Celsius. Not boiling point, if the guy didn't take the hint and back off the last thing the Torch wanted to do was kill him, but the stench...took me years of web swinging in (relatively) fresh New York air to forget it.
The memory is not the one I want to be having in my final moments, so the best way to avoid that is to make sure this is not my final moment. My hands break the grip on Metallo's, spraying almost all of what's left of both shooters all over that green eyed skull. The gambit pays off; he may have spent the last couple of years as a walking tank, but he's still got human instincts. My ass bounces off the floor as I'm unceremoniously dropped, Metallo staggering back and clawing at his face liked an enraged dog. I hear muffled metallic squawks under the layers and decided not to waist the two seconds it's going to take him pull it off.
Coffee tables are wonderful things. Get enough momentum behind them and you can do anything, like, oh I dunno, smash an psychotic robot man through a tenth story window.
The death throws of the building boom around me, a chill strong as Bobby Drake's rushing through the walls and bending the flames like flailing palm trees. The sound of the lower floors giving out dosen't assure me it's enough, and being an ice statue in an earthquake dosen't sound like the May Parker's favourite nephew wants to go out. This, I take my leave, diving out through the shattered window and onto the roof below. No sign of Metallo, but who says he landed here? I don't have much time to care as the building caves in behind me, the blast of air and force throwing me down into the street. A last web line from my left shooter snaps my body into more controlled fall, chunks of mortar half frozen, half burnt scything over my head as I land in a crouch in front of the crowd, seconds away from their home landing on them. My first thoughts are to spin a web net, that I couldn't make one big enough to catch it all, there's nothing to anchor it too if I could, it would never get wide enough in time, and that I'm practically out anyway. My head goes empty, filming like my camera back on that ledge a few blocks away as my view of a slab of building about the size of Giant Man (or Yellow Jacket, or Ant Man or what ever he's calling himself), window frames laced with jagged glass and a length of fire escape banging against it as it hangs from a single bolt, is blocked by an instant mountain of red and blue.
The movie actor black haired head rears back like an inhaling dragon (question, how
many cigarettes could Fing Fang Foom smoke if Fing Fang Foom could smoke cigarettes?), and suddenly there's this red screaming, pulsing light obliterating everything. My coustume is going to be all wrinkled and stinky from the sweat and the heat. After I've just been through three burning buildings. Heat vision. The physicist in me insists it shouldn't be red, but my endorphins, happy to be in a living body still producing adrenaline to be happy in, decided to go nuts and drown it out.
The big guy lands to the cheering of about a thousand people, looking the building up and down. I do the same and I have to admit, apart from the pile of rubble piled around the still standing supports and the gaping hole that was the first two floors it dosen't look too bad. Pull in a construction crew, ring up the insurance agencies…hopefully this'll all somehow pull people's lives back together. I've seen worlds torn apart by this kind of thing back home, stuff that could have been prevented if half these villains weren't such destructive bastards. And we were just a split second faster to stop it before it happened. But their alive. That's something. Maybe more.
He big guy looks over his shoulder, smiling at the crowd, turning fully to face me and the rescue crews.
"Nice work."
There's a chorus of thanks and more cheers over my "Back at ya.", the men swarming forward to shake hands, pat on the back, and generally do what you naturally would face to face with the biggest name since Jesus H Christ himself. Hell, there's even a couple for me. Apparently I'm not bad for a tourist". I'm grinning under the mask like that crazy SOB in Gotham, Turpin's arm around hanging off my shoulder, nodding at a thinly smiling Sawyer as a black SUV pulls up alongside a parked ambulance. Instead of the FBI (or worse, the IRS), Lois leaps out before the doors half way close to open, a bomber jacket thrown on over her cocktail dress, sensible shoe heels almost snapping off as she lands on the asphalt. Olsen follows in a kind of gravity defying tumble, dancing along behind her with a grin almost as shiny as the light glinting off his camera lens. Ben is next, following them with a slow jog and a raised eye brow. This is big but not really his kind of thing. He and Matt are crime buster/mystery solver types, and to be fair hero team ups are kinda so and so. But he's smiling. Not in that typical Riiiigth New Yorker kinda way though. After all, it is Superman. He gives me a nod, the kind he gives me back at the Bugle when I come in a seven to find out he's been at his desk since one last morning. Only to Spider-Man, who he's sometimes met through Daredevil. Not Peter Parker. Not at all.
I don't even have to turn around at the sound behind me like Godzilla on a bad day, but I do anyway. There's Jonah, haggling over price with the owner. That's oddly comforting considering I'm standing in what's technically a war zone.
What happened to Metallo?
"Hey, uh…y'know how you said you tied Metallo up down in the sewers?" I try and keep the shake out of my voice. Mainly because I'm admitting to screwing up to a god here. He looks at me with both of those Pierce Broasnan eye brows furrowed.
"Yes?"
"I kinda had a run in with him back there. In the building. He must have tunnelled his way back out but he wasn't in there when it came down. So he's kinda…loose. Yeah. Kinda."
He glares, but not at me. At the ground. Through it.
"He wasn't in the building? Did he fall out?"
"Yeah, I knocked him out a window. He must have hit the lower roof…"
Which is mostly buried under collapsed apartment block. Panic jolts something loose in my memory the sudden victory buried. But I didn't see him on that roof.
"Which roof?"
"That one there…"
I point. I may as well say 'He had brown hair and was Caucasian." Turpin swears, Sawyer barking at trooper and civilian alike to back up. I hear Jameson yelling back at her, but I can't make out what their saying.
"Can't see him…" the big guy mumbles. "Luthor property…perfect."
There's something about the way he says that, don't know what, but his powers don't seem to be working here. He can't find Corbin with them, and if he's in one piece and out here…we have to get these people out of here…
In those frozen seconds of realization another one rams into me, the world around me creaking into ice solid stillness. Subconsciously I realise this is the height of my Spider Sense, hyper time at one million sensory light years every half second, waves and spikes of pheromones and radio waves peeling back the world one lair at a time. Everything it finds rushing back to my conscious mind as a compiled stream of data balling up in my brain and bouncing from lobe to lobe in the time it takes to blink an eye. Something not any other kind of sense is rushing around us in a rough semi circle, most of the crowd on the outer perimeter, me and the big guy in the centre. Metal creaks. Everything metal creaks. The SUV Jameson's standing in starts to shake.
The I can see by big guy's face that he knows what this is, and that it ain't good.
"Everybody…"
The entire area comes alive. I've only had to use that expression a few times in my life. Mostly around the symbioses and Aunt May, but this time I really mean it. For starters, the SUV caves inward at the same time it tares itself apart, chucking JJJ and the driver out like recycled take out in a hangover. Parking meters, cars, I-beams, I think maybe even one guy's braces, all moving, twisting, streaking and pulling towards me and the big guy, people scattering in their wake. No…not towards us. They hurtle pas us in a bee swarm storm cloud of engine parts and torn shrapnel, screaming together like loose change jangling in God's pocket.
A mutilated frame, more green glow than skeletal metal, erupts from the rubble of the previous building, a bulky thing like shape slamming together in the middle of the storm as it tumbles into it. The skull head thrusts out from between a pair of silver engine shoulders, a green kryptonite glow flashing behind a grate and not quite dying before more metal weaves over it like screeching knitting.
Metallo now looks like the bastard child of Iron Man's suit and the worst Transformers toy ever made.
And he's coming right at us.
