At Your Mercy: Chapter 6
Author's Note: If your asking for me, I'm crying for our hero's dilemma.
When he was younger, Uncle Ben used to tell him stories about the famous adventurers, how the hero risked his life for the least fortunate ones. Everybody loved them. He remembered the cheers and the non-ending crowds of thankful people. She or He, whomever it was—was a hero. The hero's life were, by majority, ambitious. That's what his reasoning mind told him as a child. His ignorance and naivety recall in the confusion. But, the colorful uniforms unsighted his thought.
He was a child.
He was seven. By that time, his parents were gone. He was tiny and weak. A small, defenseless person against the fame and workload of his parents' lives.
It was too much. Peter gave up after a day. There was one reason though, on why he survived. His dear Uncles. He owns them his life. But, even with their aid, it was hard.
He remembered how much hatred he gave to everything related to the flying machines. It only lasted during a week. His hatred was sealed close at the kindness of his uncles.
Simple weeks after the accident, the news reports rolled purposely on the TV. Signaling and showing all of their success. There was one word he remembered to see all while scanning each channel, newspaper, and article.
One word people, total strangers and far friends, used to described them.
Heroes.
He despised the word. Hated it it from any angle you showed him. If it wasn't for the unmeasurable kindness of Uncle Ben and Aunt May, the word would have remained as so. A painful remainder of their state, a simple title to put them yet a wrong one.
The life of those brilliant and zealous adventurers was so different.
Years of burying deeply those memories. The hatred seems to resurgent at such easy events.
If his head and body were pounding before, you can guess how well he's right now with the grogginess in the air, quite literally. Not mentioning his side. He was gritting his teeth, almost scratching them down. He pressed harder on the wound. A moan escaped his lips.
A gas bomb; used in the worst cases only. Either for a sneak cover into a heavily-armed intrusion or for a confusing fogginess exit from danger. Indeed, there was always a third option for him. A not-so-clean yet perfect distraction for his escapism. Agents and police men were dispersing around, aimlessly. The funny thing was, he was doing the same. Some of the perks of spontaneity
The stupor of the aerosol in the air was giving him an aneurysm, he thought so at least. Peter waved his hand in front of him, he coughed and winced at the same time. His side was burning. His suit must be sucked right now, a feeling of a small tickle was on his leg. Blood must be scurrying down. Metal, his mouth tasted like metal. Hardly so, he saw a small light in the corner. Might as well go for it, He'd never been the fatalist himself but, is either that tiny light there or down the fluorescent lights of a prison or death.
Before moving, he took one of his gloves, and he pressed it tightly against the damage side, his left one. First my right leg, and now the left arm, must be my lucky day, he thought while groaning. He adjusted the mask—the one he stole—nicely borrowed from the FBI SWAT agent. The mask enable the gas to disoriented him.
So much can changed in a couple of hours.
After pressing the material against his skin, he spread a web over it. At least like that he'll contain the blood loss. Around him, police men scattered, some were unconscious, other were tripping, and some were smart enough to use their masks.
Needless to say, he ran for it. Metaphorically ran. If he'd skipped that bullet, he'll leave in seconds from here. A linear swing and he'll go for it. Now, as he stumbled by a couple of times, his head throbbed and he felt light-headed. The coverage on his wound was doing his job, but it was too much pain. His head screamed back at him. No, just move, move. He did that, always misstep-ping with another person. He used said opportunities to dissolved them from his route.
"Hey, I saw Spider-man walking over there!" Peter shouted over the ringing of alarmed and frighted voices. "I think he was wounded." he added. He was faking a deep, masculine voice.
"Really?" The other man—either agent or police—call out and coughed. "How can you see anything here? We're blinded practically!" He exclaimed.
"Vision 20/20. My ophthalmologist adores me." Peter replied simply. Though, the man did believe him. And apparently he was some sort of leader on his team, maybe the SWAT. Bingo. He difference eight to ten men running to the decoy direction.
He continued like that. Stumbling, distracting, gesturingand groaning. Finally, he arrived to the door. Five meters far, but as usual the universe love to play around with his head.
"Dammit!" A female—a closer step to him said it was DeWolf's—"Move, look around, common" She was ordering men and women around her. "He's wounded, it's our chance to trap the menace."
Peter snorted, the menace, right now the best fight he can give is maybe a little kicking and yelling. He dragged his body a little more, he stopped. A strong bang make him bend down, the action almost making him scream. He resisted. Some men were running around him, unaltered of his presence. If they knew, he thought,what a funny end that will be. Maybe a little sardonic.
"How could he have one of those?" One man close to him asked. "They're our best material." he stated more fearful than angered. He must be new also or people think he's some sort of eight-handed monster. Great publicity.
"He's a criminal." DeWolf replied. "You know how they ought to get those stuff."
Peter was now a simple two meters from freedom yet he stopped moving. A part of him wanted to go back and demonstrate his innocence to whatever random crime they were accusing him of. That was probably his proud or dignity. The other logic ground of that brain of his wanted to know something else, there was a piece missing in here. He knew newspapers—a.k.a. the Daily Bugle—would have the new of his crime in no time. Dear Jonah Jameson must be bouncing in the air with the news of my status now.
Wanted criminal.
But, he would be lying if he said there was another truth tipping on his tongue. Something more; as on cue, DeWolf spoke again. This time a little lower.
"Officers are telling me they're looking for him on the B section." She informed the man by her side. "We need to go out. He's probably gone already. That criminal's faster than any other."
"What do we do then, Captain?" the man asked.
Captain? But, that's Gwen's father tittle. As far as he knew he still was. And what with her calling before Captain Stacy's orders?
"Call your troops. We're going to the base. On there we'll send the message to the media. Money would serve us well. People and money all together betray even the fittest."
"And are we going to say the truth about the crime, right? About the deaths and the messages, his messages to the public. The menaces to the specific groups." The other man asked after he ordered his men from communicator.
Peter was leaning against a wall—or a box, he wasn't sure. He was hearing them but the voices seem to drift off. A tunnel seem at the end of the light now. His eyelids were falling every second. He was fighting for control, for a moment he believed this body was not his. The extreme fatigue was betraying the amazing and spectacular part of his title. Also, DeWolf's words with the unknown man wearied him even more. Not that his mental walls were even that strengthen out this days. He was weak, vulnerable, in all sense of the word. So much for being the Awe-inspiring hero.
Was he ever that?
The thought of him being an inspiration. The memories of the numerous fights with the evil menaces seemed to be from to be remembering from a far away friend. One he waved from afar.
Unrecoverable.
The thought that wheeled on his mind was. I didn't do any of those things.
Then who?
"Yes. Shame will be on him, Spider-man and any other follower of his ought to know what's the real mask behind said hero." She hollered, a whistle was thrown from her lips. For sure calling back her troops. She was saying more, but he drop it.
Peter used that as his cue. He walked away from the words. His head throbbed. Even do he denied it, the rest of her word's echoed inside his head. Tortuously so, a remembrance of his falling faith. The light blinded his eyes. It was left unnoticed. So were the police men who shot at him. He hurled in the air, to any other place from here. The building were fading, he winged faster.
"The criminal, thief and vigilante he is in truth." Her words deemed an anger of no comparison.
Each block left behind enticed him more to run. Run from the truth—? He dodged to the right, a corner of a skyscraper almost jounce on his face. He shook his head. The sounds reverberated in his head.
"A simple man seeking for a far-from-deserve glory."
He did that, run. Not giving a care other than the want of his company only.
"Agent M-09 report to base along your men. Commander H-10 follow suit. We're retrieving back. I repeat, we're retrieving back. The prey's gone. I repeat, the prey's gone."
And he was gone, maybe, for sure this time. A common flash appeared before him.
He fell. The last thought on his mind was: I'm going to find you.
"Please. Students calm down."
The classroom was a common as any other. The walls were splashed with a light blue marine color. An odd choose. Rows of students were there, ready for class.
It was the last hour of the day. Minutes ticked by, the students were eager to go, everyone was.
"Mr. Thompson, please, sit down." The teacher—Miss Ginger, the philosophy professor—said. Her light brown hair was flip by the air. "And close that window, please. I realize you're eager to leave but please, we'll finish this last chapter before." She hushed more replies from the complaining class.
Flash did as told, he stood up and close the window. When he sat down, his girlfriend—Shan Sha—smiled at him approvingly. He returned it back.
"Common, Miss Ginger." Robertson said. He was sitting in the middle, right to Flash. "An early departure can be that bad." He said. He leaned back on his chair.
"Yes." Kong added. His elbow was on the table. His head left from it for a second to talk. "We'll be so silent you won't even hear us breathing." He said. Then, nodded.
"I can't hear you breathing now, Mr. Kong." Miss Ginger answered back, a dry tone on her words. "Besides, this video will be excellent for our topic, did I mentioned it'll appear also in our monthly exam."
The whole class groaned at that. Miss Ginger smiled sweetly at them only in response.
She moved out of the way of the board. A squared TV was behind her, students stare boringly as she inserted a CD in the TV. The machine gave it back. Miss Ginger repeated the action and again and again it happened. "What?" She muttered out loud.
"Any problem Miss?" Gwen asked kindly.
"No, I just," the teacher stammered. "It's not working." she said.
"Maybe you're doing it wrong." Harry muttered. Gwen turned to him, he was sitting beside her, to her left. Their table was on the right corner of the room in the middle.
"Harry?" To say the girl was surprised was one thing. The red-headed boy was yet to utter a word that day. "What did you said?"
Harry shook his head. "Nothing." he said quietly.
Gwen sighed. She turned to the side. Her chin up in her palm, a defeated look on her face. For the first time in the day, she looked around, searching for the face of a specific person. She didn't found it.
Her face scrunched in confusion. The blond girl turned to the other person she knows will definitely know where is he.
"Mary-Jane?" Gwen whispered. Her chair tilted to the right to lean closer. "Hey."
"Mm-hmm" Mary-Jane answered. "Oh. Gwen. I'm sorry. What is it?" She asked after a second of distraction. She was reading the script from her favorite act.
"I just," Gwen bit her lip, nervously so. "Have you seen, Peter?" She finally asked.
"Peter?" Mary-Jane repeated. "I-" she thought for second. "No." she shook her head. "Not since this morning. Biology Class. Why? Were is him?" She asked after seeing the expression in the other girl's face.
"I don't know." she blurted out. "I mean, I saw him in the fourth hour, just before lunch, but I haven't seen him ever since and you either right?" she asked, worry in her eyes.
"Right."Mary Jane answered. Concern in her eyes too. There was another thing realization.
"What?" Gwen asked after seeing it. "Do you remember anything?"
"He was a little off this morning, when I talked to him." Mary-Jane said. She side-glanced at Gwen, her eyes widen a little, her smile was wary, trying to cover up the meaning of her words "I mean, maybe he felt sick." She shrugged lightly. But, her eyes were still resisting the skeptical look of Gwen.
Another light cross the Gwen's eyes. Guilt, it was so obvious that Mary Jane found herself flinching.
Finally Gwen uttered a faint, "Maybe."
"Off course." Mary Jane added quickly.
Both girls glanced around, ending facing each other again. Care edging on their faces.
Finally, the teacher cleared out his throat. At the same moment, the TV behind her broke into static. Miss Ginger angled her neck to see. All the class gasped. The image of the video changed into a news channel.
Miss Ginger stepped back. Surprise on her features. She sat down on the edge of her desk.
The TV boomed a voice. The image was clear out, the channel came into focus. The voice was one from a reporter.
The headlines popped everyone from their chairs
SPIDER-MAN, WANTED CRIMINAL.
"What?" Flash exclaimed. "What's this? Miss Ginger?" Flash stood up, he was baffled.
"I don't know," Miss Ginger shook her head fervently. "Just, I don't."
After the music of the newspaper finished everyone muted.
"Good afternoon, New York City." A woman said. "This is the reporter Samuel in coverage of the latest news of today. One, we assure you, it's true."
The image shifted to a second newsman. "That's right, Sarah. We'll appreciate greatly the understanding of the public. This news may be emphasized."
"Where are those sauces...?" She questioned aloud. "The house isn't big enough." She stated, then laughed, the sound was muffled by the walls. "Is it?"
"Oh May, I told you maybe they ran out." Anne Watson responded from the kitchen. "Are you sure you're right in looking for them." She called out, an amusing smile on her lips.
"Yes, I'm sure." May said, she was smiling. In her hands were the pair of red peppers sausages she was looking for. "Here they were. What did I told you, Anne. I may have the couple of years over me, but this," May signaled her head. "isn't so old yet." She smiled.
"Mm." Anne laughed. May Parker following suit.
"So, what are they for? I thought the doctor warned you about spices." Anne warning tone was overcasting her words. "And Peter? Does he knows? You know how-"
"-He worries, I know." May sighed. She rounded the table and sat down. A mug of coffee was in the middle, Anne pushed it, motioning to her to take it. May smiled at her old friend and reached for it. "The sauces are for him. It has been so long since I last cooked my special spiced pasta. As far as I remember it was his favorite before." May explained. "Something to give in return for all his worrying around."
Anne smiled in understanding to her eagerness to find those recipients. "You know he just cares." She said quietly. Her hands were facing the wooden-table. "Maybe a little too much." She added after some thought.
"Maybe?" May repeated skeptically. "That boy's going to have green hairs if he doesn't stop. I try to make him stopped but he dismisses me by saying it's his job," May sipped her coffee carefully. "In some way, I understand him, Ben used to be the same." May said. A shadow of the past outlined her face. Her stare stare lingered in her mug, staring lost.
Anne sighed. Knowing those lines were still an open wound. "Give him time. He's going to be fine. One or two responsibilities more are not going to kill him." She said. Her chair was pushed forward, she stood up.
"He's just sixteen. Seventeen next month" May cried. "He shouldn't be worrying for things like this."
"You know someday he would. Now is better than later, right?" Anne tried to reason. Her voice was gentle. "May." She called again.
May leaned on her chair. Her mug drank by half. "He should be out enjoying his youth, with friends. You know what I noticed he doesn't tell me about Harry or Gwen anymore, he used to mention them every minute of the day. Now it just like this nothing," May stood up, her hands put the chair back to its place. "as though they disappeared." May said, confusion on her voice.
She rounded the table, placing the other chair back. "One month they're fine and the next they're not. I don't understand, I'm trying to, but he doesn't let me." after a second she added. "What about Mary Jane, had she told you about Peter or something?" She asked hopefully.
Anne shook her head in denial. "Not a word."
She walked closer to May. "Maybe it's just temporal."
"Maybe. I don't know," May sighed. She stretched out her arms. "I hope so."
"Let's hope." Anne said. "You know what we should do while waiting for them. We should see the news. Might as well be sure there's not any attack or something."
"Anne, you know they´re safe. I have been watching the news and lately, there hasn't been so much activity."
"Really?"
"No. And I think we should thank that to that gracious Spider-man" May said.
"That's okay. As long as those monsters are far the better." They walked into the living room. Anne moved to sat down on the sofa in front of the TV. May reached for the control remote. She turned on the television.
From the first instance they turned it on, a broadcast and a known music beamed on the screen. Everything was right. Except there was some lining in black, bold letters running on the screen.
SPIDER-MAN, WANTED CRIMINAL.
"What?" May asked confusedly. She adjusted her glasses. The words didn't change. "What's this? Are you seeing this?" She asked.
"I think so." Anne Watson stammered. Her head shook in confusion. "What does it mean?"
May only shook her head. The newswoman came and introduced herself. "Shh, they're speaking, let's hear. Maybe they'll explain this."
...of the public. This news may be emphasized." A blond man said.
An image appeared behind them, a clear shot of Spider-man in action. "This afternoon the Police Department of New York City along with the FBI and CIA gave an announcement for the media." The man cleared out his throat, as though the words he's about to say were arduous. He seemed nervous.
The man looked directly at the camera. "The message said: Effective immediately the citizen known as the Spider-man is deemed as a wanted criminal of the state of NYC and the U.S. Any resistance from him would only enlarge his sentence. One the supreme court would decide for him."
May and Anne—they—both gasped at those words. They were unbelievable.
"That's impossible!"Flash yelled to the TV. Every head on the class turned around to him, they all wore the same bewildered expression. "You know it's all lies from them!" He cried again. Sha-shan was trying to calm him down by pushing him back to his seat, her hand on his elbow. But, he wasn't about to do that. His hero—this city's hero for crying out loud—was being accuse of crimes. Ones that are fake. Immensely so. He was angered.
"It can't be." Mary Jane muttered. For once were expression was one of insecurity. It was wrong, all of it. Spider-man is a hero. He had save her in the past. She'd watched as he fought against villains in order to save the people. That accusation's unbelievable. Had they forgotten what has he done for this city? And if so, how can they do it so fast?
"No." Gwen gasped. "It's a misunderstanding." Now more than ever her phone was burning her skin. The desire to call her father and ask for explanations and why's was being prompted by her brain and heart. Spider-man has not save her once nor twice, at least three times. She ought him at least a little concern for his well-being. And her father did know that.
"Yes, finally." Harry said, quietly enough. Delight was on his eyes. Now you can see it for yourselves New York, he's a simple and plain murderer.
The image darted to the woman. Another image was shown, this time it was Spider-man leaning against a post in a horizontal way, his hands and feet were together, he was shooting something at the thieves.
"Oh no."
"Oh no?" A man in his mid-forties mockingly ask. "Could you repeat that again so everyone can listen to you. Are you really feeling sorry for this phony?" The man asked. He glanced back to the crowd behind them. The streets were plagued with unmoving men and women. People who were glued to the ground after the broadcast boomed on the streets. Shocking too much the by passers to continue their walk. The crowd grew with each second. Some where glancing between the images of the giant screens of Times Square while others where murmuring between themselves their thinking.
The man who yelled the words make everyone's attention grasp to him. Some of them stayed quiet, not knowing what to say now.
"Shut up and leave her alone." Came the response from the inside of the group of people. An old man stepped in front, his eyeglasses fog a little with the cold breeze.
"Spiderman's a murderer and fake character."
"What he is," He spoke out loud, his voice loud and strong despite his physique. The old man signaled the screens that were showing images from said person. "is nothing less and nothing more than a hero." He turned to the crowd of people. "Isn't he?"
Multiple expression were shown: anger, compassion, fear. But, that one that struck the most was confusion.
"There you have it." said the man. The old man shook his head in sheer deception, he was anticipating more from them. He walked off the crowd into the streets not desiring to see more.
"That said. The NYPD added that a reward would be on the," the woman cleared out her throat. "vigilante." As the other newsman, the words seemed to be difficult to speak.
"If you have any information regarding to the founding or location of Spider-man call the following numbers." A series of numbers appeared on the screen, all types of numbers. After a second it was gone.
"Yes! Yes!" screamed J. Jonah Jameson. His palms pressed on the desk before him. "Ms. Grant call the Police Department tell them we'll give them everything and every help they want." He turned to an open-mouthed Ned Lee. "Lee I want photos, send them photos!"
"To who—"The young reporter quickly asked but was shoved off in seconds.
"To who? My grandma's that resting in peace, no! The news channel NOW!" yelled Jameson, his voice echoing inside the whole room in wide decibels.
Every person inside the penthouse of the Daily Bugle scattered around all looking for what to do.
Jameson exited his office and ushered down every single person in the space. "All of you go! I want this all done in the next minute or else you're all fire. And I'm not the unfair myself. All of you, including you over there!" He pointed a guy eating a sandwich in the back. "And I want to know what sandwich are you eating, if it's tuna, you're fired! I hate tuna! I explicitly said that on the contract." Jameson threw his hands to the air on his way back to his office. "Move, move, move! This is a one time chance!"
"Mr. Jameson the police department accepted. They want a word with you tomorrow." Betty Grant said in a practiced rush just before he entered his office.
"On the moon, the bathroom even New Jersey. Date it, and where's my coffee!"
The doors closed behind him, he inhale deeply. Clark Fresnel—from finance—was there. Fidgeting with his tie as usual.
Jameson sigh in pleasure, sitting down on his chair smiling dreamily then it turned into a side to side grin. "Remember the date wall-crawler," Jameson said out loud peering over the rolling news. He glanced through the transparent walls of his office. "Today will be the day your little dangling feet will be imprison! By who? J. Jonah Jameson. By what glorious newspaper? The Daily Bugle!" he exclaimed each word.
"Sir, the article will appear until tomorrow so technically..." The other man trailed off stammering.
Jameson glared at him for a second and yelled. "Did I ask your opinion! No! Then why are you wasting my oxygen. Go get me coffee!"
"That said. The NYPD added that a reward would be on the," the woman cleared out her throat. "vigilante." As the other newsman, the words seemed to be difficult to speak.
"If you have any information regarding to the founding or location of Spider-man call the following numbers." A series of numbers appeared on the screen, all types of numbers. After a second it was gone.
"They've inform us that the Daily Bugle would be displaying an article with more detailed information since right now their owner and publisher Mr. Jonah Jameson," The female reporter gestured to a photo of Jameson on the back. "has had the privilege to speak with the NYPD about it."
A rapid succession of photos of Spider-man appeared on the screen, each in a different angle. Some were vertical, other newer, recent events. Something they did have in common. Either of the photos showed Spider-man protecting the people.
It was just him, showing off in the lens.
"Furthermore, we announce today Spider-man as our most wanted criminal right now. If you encounter him, do not approach him. Testifiers of the police men said there was some violent reactions from him when the police tried to reason with the vigilante." He said.
"Well, look at that." Tombstone, ex-big man said. A sardonic laugh escaped his blue-paled lips. "Isn't that irony." He stood up from his—well-known by the rest of prisoners—his bench.
Prisoners around him, all smirk and laughed—enjoying the case of their trapper. Tombstone smiled despite everything at their gleefulness. He was expecting this in some way.
"Let's wait until he gets here." Hammerhead said behind his still current boss. "How many time you bet it'll be, big man?" asked with enough satisfaction the second hand of the big man.
"He'll be here when we're gone. Of that, I'm sure." responded sure enough of this the Tombstone. He eyed each of the guards who we're partially distracted by the news channel too. A smirk crossed his cold stare. "Oh how sure I am. And now that every single police men is distracted by this. At present will be out best timing ever." Tombstone bellowed. "Besides there's no rookie hero to distract us now."
Hammerhead smiled—anything but warmly—at this. "No, there's not." Their eyes returned to the now ending screen.
"The reward and the emergency phone numbers would be displayed in the newspaper" She said.
"The photos and images shown where provided by the Daily Bugle publisher's data." He said.
"Photographs by Peter Parker" They said at the same time. "Have a good day."
The screen fade away, but his eyes didn't left the images displayed, either the name nor headlines.
He smiled.
Author's Note: I think you're cerebraining a little with the mysterious man below. *smiles* Yeah, he's not who you think it is. But, it's not nobody you know just yet.
Winks, Aprilgen98.
