The Daily Bugle's Coverage
Chapter 4: The Daily Bugle's Coverage
afternoon, daily bugle headquarters
It was Peter's idea, after all. Peter, complicit in her dual identity, was to make a little extra money on the side by taking pictures of her and selling them to the local pulp tabloid. In return, she could have some media exposure, possibly helpful for a future career in modeling or acting, and he would have the money to take her out on dates without him begging her to split the check.
It was Peter's bright ideas that had Peter Parker, camera hanging around his neck, and Mary Jane Watson, hands demurely folded behind her back, standing in the main office of the Daily Bugle, listening to the rants of his future boss, J. Jonah Jameson.
"They say there's a new 'superhero' in town!" The word superhero was accompanied by Jameson curling the first two fingers on each hand to look like quotation marks. "Or should I say 'superheroine'?" Again, the curling of fingers to show utter skepticism. "That's bullshit, to put it bluntly! Why would a 'hero' have to hide her face? Hide her identity? What is she afraid of? Why, she could be a sociopath—a criminal—an attention-seeking glory hound!"
MJ blanched.
Hoffman, Jameson's personal gofer, gulped before timidly voicing his objection. "They—the ones who caught a close look—say Spider-Woman's really hot."
"Hot! They say she's hot!" Jameson chomped on his ever-present cigar, filling the room, and especially Hoffman's face, with smoke. "I don't give a tinker's damn if she's hot! Good looks don't mean shit! Delilah was hot! Lady Macbeth was hot! Eva Braun was hot! They say Helen of Troy was the hottest woman of all and she started a war!" He paused and looked at the rough layout of that day's evening edition. "I need a decent photograph of her for the cover! But she just moves too fast!"
"Sir?" Peter piped up. "I might be able to solve your problem." He slapped several photographs (that Spider-Woman had willfully posed for, of course) on the desk.
Jameson's jaw dropped. "These are better than some of the crap I've gotten," he grudgingly admitted. "How did you get these?" he barked.
Peter grinned. "Call it my good looks and boyish charm."
Jameson's face said yeah, right, but his mouth said, "I'll pay ya two hundred—for all of them."
"Two hundred? For the whole pack? Gee, I can always go to the New York Times—all the news that's fit to print—"
"And then some! Fine, three hundred—"
"Each—"
"Each? Are you out of your mind?"
Jameson's second-in-command, Robbie Robertson, was yelling for a Page One—fast. The evening edition was going to come out in a few hours and Jameson was in a bind.
"Fine. A hundred each for five pictures. But I get to use them on the dailybugleonline website, as well."
"Fine," agreed Peter.
"Go get your check up front. I can see the headline now—Spider-Woman: Hero or Menace?"
"She is not a menace—"
"I pay you to take the pictures, not write the headlines, got it? Get outta here. Robertson! I got your Page One!"
"I'm a menace?" Mary Jane angrily whispered as they headed out the door.
"Of course you're not. Just let him have his fun." Peter and Mary Jane walked out the door to a shrill scream, situated just inside an alley a few blocks down.
"I should know that scream by now. Someone's in trouble."
Remember the drill, Watson! Mary Jane thought to herself. She had to find a deserted corner, or public restroom, or dark alley to change in—some superheroes changed in phone booths but with the advent of cell phones, hardly any of those were around anymore.
Double-check to make sure no one was around—pull off her clothes down to the costume underneath—red and blue, short, midriff-exposing top, long gloves, tight leggings, accented with black webbing—and pull on the mask—red, with big white lenses to cover her eyes, open in front to breathe more easily and open on top to let her hair flow. The costume was her own design, with only minimal input from Peter. She could be a fashion designer someday.
Carefully make a mesh of webbing to hang her civilian clothes in, hang it on the wall, and jump to the rescue, all of this in only a few seconds, before the perp got away. Put on her game face, never act scared or nervous. A superhero was fearless.
The screamer, an attractive, tall blonde in her thirties, pointed and sighed with relief that The Friendly Neighborhood Superhero had stopped to help. "He stole my Gucci bag—and took off that way! Please don't let him get away!"
Spider-Woman ran after him, at this time still unable to get the hang of swinging on buildings by spider web. However, with her spider-speed, she easily caught up to him.
"Gee, most thieves are at least smart enough to steal a lady's purse at night in a dark alley, not in the middle of the street in broad daylight," Spider-Woman remarked, snatching the purse from the robber. She looked inside. Thankfully, the woman's wallet was still there, though cleaned out of cash. Oh well, she thought. At least she'll be grateful that she's only out a few dollars instead of having her identity stolen.
Unfortunately, the blonde was many things upon having her purse returned, and grateful wasn't in the mix. Anger, indignation, sure. But not gratitude.
"He took all my cash! And the strap on my Gucci bag is broken!"
Spidey realized that must have happened when she pulled the purse from the robber by the handle. She still went overboard with her spider-strength sometimes. And after a long, hard, sweaty day of superhero work, she didn't have time for whining about a snapped handle on a designer purse. "You can buy a new one, miss. You're lucky your driver's license and credit cards are still there. Haven't you ever heard of identity theft?"
Spidey threw a web line to the nearest building, looking for a fast exit. She quickly ran to where her clothes were, with any luck, still hanging. Peter was waiting there, wearing the ubiquitous camera around his neck and an impish smile on his face. "I got some great pictures. I can see the headline now: 'Spider-Woman Saves Local Columnist—'
Mary Jane rolled her eyes. "Considering your new boss, it's more like: 'Spider-Menace Attempts to Steal Columnist's Purse.' And the bitch wasn't even grateful that I got her purse back. I accidentally broke the strap while taking it from the thief, too."
Peter sighed. "I told you that you have to learn to control your powers better. You have to keep your strength in mind when you're dealing with an ordinary human, you know. You don't want to end up killing someone."
"I know," MJ sighed. Where people got the idea that being a superhero was fun was anyone's guess.
late afternoon, oscorp energy alternatives
Unaware of his true destiny and his true role in the life of the woman he adored from afar, a scruffy-haired, stocky nuclear physicist opened his laptop and ran a Google image search for Spider-Woman. Finding a satisfactory photograph of her on dailybugleonline-dot-com, taken by a certain Peter Parker, he printed the image out and carefully scotch-taped it on the door of his storage locker. Then he returned to his office, and seeing his employer Norman Osborn and his college student intern standing in the doorway, he shouted for his laboratory assistant. "Trainer! The harness!"
Dr. Carolyn Trainer, fresh from graduate school, ran in with a metal cart bearing the aforementioned harness, resembling a metal corset excepting for the four long, pincered, tentacle-like arms welded to the back. The entire apparatus hung from a special stand, the coupler.
"I believe you inquired about my recent invention, Mr. Osborn," Dr. Otto Octavius told his employer. "It is better to show than to tell, I say."
Otto stepped into the coupler, stripping off his white lab coat and unbuttoning his green collared shirt. Then he pressed a code into the keypad. Recognizing its master, the system booted up, the corset closing around his torso. He brushed curls of chestnut hair away from his forehead, revealing two tiny metal jacks near each of his temples. He connected two wires on the upper edge of the front corset to these jacks. Meanwhile, an artificial spine curled up from the back of the corset to the nape of his neck, pins digging into his back. Only the slightest expression of pain crossed the scientist's face.
Norman's astonishment and slight horror clearly visible, he gasped. "What are—"
Otto disdainfully sneered at his boss' fear. "Nothing to worry about. They are all merely electrodes that integrate the artificial intelligence with my own nervous system, enabling me to control my 'assistants' with my own thoughts, thereby manipulating elements in my fusion research no human hand could enter."
Norman, thoughtful, raised his next question. "But Doctor, couldn't the artificial intelligence—"
"Dr. Trainer here asked that very question of me recently. I pointed out to her what I shall to you," Otto replied, pointing to a small chip on the top of the artificial spine. "Rest assured, this inhibitor chip ensures that I remain in control. And with the help of my marvelous mechanical arms, though others may fear radiation, I alone can make it my servant!"
"You know," Otto added, justly proud of his invention, "these things have just landed me on the cover of Wired magazine. I'm going to frame the cover in my office next to my four Scientific American covers. You should check the newsstands tomorrow. I might even send you an autographed copy!" And with that, he swaggered out of the room, tentacles hovering over his shoulders, undulant and swirling about him.
Norman directed a contemptuous sneer at his star researcher. "The man's humility overwhelms me," he muttered.
But as he left, Otto heard the words of the intern to Norman: "And that's why, Mr. Osborn, we call this little prick "Doctor Octopus" behind his back."
evening, near parker residence
"You know, Pete," she said, "Fighting all these two-bit crooks has gotten too easy! I'm too powerful for any foe!"
"Pride goes before a fall," Peter reminded her, "and so does a banana peel! Don't get ahead of yourself!"
"I'm serious, Pete! I wish I had my own supervillain, a guy who could really give me a run for my money! I mean, you can't have a superhero without a supervillain!"
"You know what they say, MJ, be careful what you wish for—"
late afternoon, oscorp energy alternatives
Dr. Otto Octavius stood at his workstation, a wall of lead and glass protecting him from the radioactive material he worked with. Four holes, lined with rubber flaps, allowed him to use his mechanical arms while he concentrated on his own thoughts.
"They're just jealous," he said to no one in particular, recalling the words of the intern, recalling the rather comical nickname his coworkers had apparently bestowed on him. "They're all jealous. Even Osborn."
Carolyn stepped into Otto's workstation. "Otto? Would you like me to pick you up some coffee?"
Otto waved her off. "No, Trainer. Just shut the door on the way out. I'll be working late tonight," he informed her.
And every night. As long as it takes—
And a few hours later, that's when he heard the alarms...
early afternoon, parker residence
Mary Jane suddenly caught sight of a plume of thick smoke on the edge of town. At around the same time, Peter's cell phone rang. Mary Jane could only hear snatches of Jameson's voice, but she knew somehow it couldn't bode well…for either Mary Jane Watson or Spider-Woman.
"Parker! Why don't you answer your cell?! What do you think it's for, decoration? There's been an accident at Oscorp Nuclear Energy Facility…atomic reaction got out of control…one of the head researchers was injured…Dr. Otto Octavius just rushed to Phoebus General Hospital...part of his lab equipment welded right on him…I need pictures right now…"