Black Substenance
by Famira Damaris
Disclaimer: I don't own Spider-man.
Author Notes: Basically it's mostly Ultimate Spider-man universe except Venom's origins are the symbiote and the shuttle crash. Again, plot first, pairings next. This is mostly a mixing of 616 and Ultimateverse. Slashyish, you have been warned. Not fluffy. Sorry about the big delay guys. I tried to make up with a gigantic chapter:D?
Italics for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote
Archive: Sure, just ask.
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Black Sustenance
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(When Eddie Met Peter)
For once both Eddie Brock and the symbiote were entirely single-minded – any disagreements they might have had over their feeding habits was temporarily forgotten as they registered just what in the world was enfolding right in front of their eyes.
What they saw made them see red.
Sandman stood over their Spider.
Everything about his body language screamed dominant, as if he owned Parker.
Whatever his actual intentions were was irrelevant. They read it as a threat to what was their property.
Venom swung in, letting go of the web line at the apex of the arc and dropping like a stone toward their enemy, fangs bared in a snarl. Sandman responded by morphing his arm into a giant hammer of sand – how imaginative – but they were ready for him this time, oh yes. Several black, pulsing tendrils spun out from their bunched shoulders, racing toward the hammer to engulf it, seeking to absorb it into themselves. Sandman managed to recall his blow before they could, but they saw the beginnings of fear and doubt set in. Venom landed heavily on all fours and charged at the other, drooling tongue snaking through the air as they went to drive him off.
They won several yards between them and their contested territory of Parker before Sandman ground in his heels stubbornly and refused to budge another step backward.
"So what're ya? Sandman swirled out of reach of one of the seeking tendrils, reforming a sandy mouth. "A mutie like everyone else in this town?"
A mutant? They gave a hissing, derisve laugh. Venom risked a glance over his shoulder. Spider-man was still out-cold lying where Sandman dropped him, with Venom planted between them.
"We're collecting," Venom hissed. "And we're also in a nice, cozy killing mood today, so we hope you brought plenty humans with you to keep us company."
"Sick fuck, aren't ya?"
A fang-filled, humorless grin. "We try."
"Too bad we're gunning on opposite sides, eh?"
"We're not on anyone's side Venom began, cutting himself off. He had a split second to notice the glint over Sandman's shoulder right before his spider-sense began ringing. Reacting on instinct, Venom bounded out of the way, a small ping betraying the tranquilizer hitting the pavement right where his hand had been seconds before.
Sandman reformed a few meters away, scowling as he glanced over his shoulder. "Silver bitch just don't wait, does she?" he paused, listening to something in his ear. "Yes, I'd like to keep my nuts intact, thanks. It'd help, y'know, if you wait on cuttin' them off until after the job."
He turned around.
"Oh, shi- "
Venom's claw impacted with his face: Sandman's head billowed out back with a violent spray of sand, his whole skull dissolving. Reacting instinctively, Sandman slung out with a left hook, catching only air as Venom ducked.
Unfortunately, that brought him face to face with the flash bang grenade that rolled in between Sandman's feet, coming to an innocent stop before erupting with a deafening, blinding explosion of light and sound.
Venom reeled backward, their third set of eyelids slamming closed before the light could blind them any further. The harsh blast of sound was far worse, sending the oily symbiote covering roiling and bubbling like oil. They went down on all fours, hissing in agony and shaking their head. Another clink to the side. A smoke grenade went off, followed by the second flash bang going off at their feet – it was louder than before, sending physical pangs of pure agony piercing through their limbs. They were aware of something giving an angry, furious roar of defiance, and scrambling away from the spot, dimly aware of the greasy smoke surrounding them and cursing from Sandman.
The spider-sense went off. Left – no, right too!
All directions!
Venom barreled out of the cloud of smoke, erupting with slobbering fangs bared, noted that there seemed to be a lot of guns pointed at him, and went for the closest. He was upon the armored human in a split second, punching through the flimsy armor and caving in his ribcage just as the others' guns discharged. The bullets squelched into Venom's back and bounced off as he threw the dying soldier to the ground. A part of them – the Eddie part – was relieved to find they apparently were bullet-proof. The part trying to keep them alive told him to shut up and concentrate before they ended up swamped by reinforcements.
They turned, slung out a claw and a tentacle of their skin snapped off like a whip to wrap around the torso of one of the shooters. It constricted. A strangled, guttural scream and then a deliciously final snap. The black-clad human collapsed to the ground like a wet sack of flour. Sensing a gap opening in the ring as his opponents spread out, Venom charged forward.
A woman stepped forward. Clad in some kind of white uniform, a gleaming curtain of silver hair fluttering in the breeze, she blocked his way. Venom assumed this was the "silver bitch" that Sandman mentioned earlier. She wasn't tall by any means but she stared him down with the cool expression of someone who was prepared.
She was also shouldering what looked like a very big, very deadly rocket launcher.
Without a change in her expression, the silver woman fired. Venom braced for an impact.
What hit him was no ordinary round.
It tore through him just like a flash bang, multiplied a hundred fold and throwing him sprawling backward. They slammed back into the steps of the Library with crushing force, forcing the air out of their lungs. The symbiote hurriedly began pumping in oxygen even as they struggled to breathe, wheezing, fangs parted and tongue lolling. The symbiote gave a pained twitch every few seconds, torn between wanting to rip apart every human here (with Silver Bitch and Sandman at the top of the list) and beating a retreat to lick its wounds while it still could. Venom looked up, saw Sandman suddenly arcing up over them, his legs standing a good distance away, and saw that woman aiming her weapon in his direction.
One way or another, they'd have to take a hit.
Sandman reformed his arms into a basic club and slammed downward just as Silver Sable fired. Venom took the blow on the back of his head and his shoulders, crushed into the very foundation of the Library stairs and disappearing in a pile of rubble.
"Christ-!" Sandman recoiled as Silver Sable's shot passed through him and hit the walls with a deafening crack. "Watch where you're shootin'!"
"Just don't let him escape!"
So it wasn't the Spider they were after, Venom realized, too spent to remove himself from the miniature crater in the midst of the stairs. Parker was just bait, set out for a larger fish to try taking a bite of.
And now the hook was piercing the fish, too close for their liking.
That changed everything. Getting captured wasn't acceptable, and he weren't going to stick around despite his bloodlust. Much as he'd like to see Silver Bitch and Sandman lying in pools of blood and entrails, sometimes one just had to swallow one's pride and prioritize. Prioritizing said that they get out of here while they still could. He wasn't used to thinking of himself as actually vulnerable, but all it would take was knock him unconscious, and then he'd be at their mercy.
Venom played dead for a long minute, listening to the humans talking amongst themselves about a parameter and a retrieval unit, using the time to orient himself and trying to recall where Parker was. A few yards away, maybe. They most certainly couldn't leave him here, not when these two would love to use their property against them again. Venom's tongue ran slowly over his bloodied fangs, preparing himself and waiting for the pain tremors to die down from that hit earlier. One eye narrowed to a white slit, Venom spotted Spider-man. The superhero was lying right where he'd been dropped, half on his side with an arm pinned under him, presenting a wonderful view of his perfectly toned ass. The suit might as well not be there.
The mating is too close, Venom thought, furious to realize they had sexual urges despite the circumstances. This had to be the worst mating site possible and yet here he was, about to have what Eddie Brock called a raging mad hard-on even though they could very well be captured and carted off by whoever hired their attackers.
"You think he's out?" Sandman's gravely voice asked nearby.
"Never can be sure with these mutant types," his female partner said. "He didn't seem to like my USW cannon."
"I didn't like your USW."
"Then don't get in its arc of fire next time."
"I had him."
"This isn't a contest, Marko. It's a job. I like to make sure the target's incapacitated than worry about who gets points for taking him down."
A grunt. "You always this crazy?"
"Part and parcel of the job - you over there, hurry up with the containment cage and the verg!"
"Verg?"
"VRG vortex ring gun. Payment from my last job. The government hasn't even finished developing them yet. We didn't know this mutant of yours was bulletproof, so I brought two vergs as insurance. They accelerate pressurized gas at high speeds: we've laced these ones with some incapacitating agents strong enough to drop just about anything elephant sized and smaller. I doubt we can penetrate his skin with the typical tranquilizers."
Venom risked tilting his head up to get a better view. The humans were scurrying about back and forth between several black vans toward the Silver Bitch, her back turned momentarily as she went to retrieve her precious vergs. A few feet away, Spider-man groaned softly, slowly regaining consciousness. Stop moving, idiot, Venom thought angrily. You'll draw attention to us!
Obviously telepathy wasn't one of their talents. Spider-man squirmed a bit more and moaned loader. Sandman – Marko, they had a name – glanced over.
Venom did his best road kill impression.
Seeing no immediate threat, Marko glanced back at his female companion. Venom's white eyes opened again, the symbiote's third eyelid nictitating sideways as their jaws parted, carefully ejecting the symbiote's translucent green slime – what passed for blood – from their throat and onto the cracked pavement with inaudible slopping noises. If Venom was going to escape, he wasn't going to do it choking on his own blood. They had more dignity than that.
A small tendril oozed out from their palm, snaking out slowly toward Spider-man. It connected with his back, inched his way over his ribs and back down over the smooth planes of his stomach until they were sure they had a good hold of him. A careful glance around. Most of the humans were collected in the open ground, with none he could see in the actual Library, obviously thinking it was a dead end.
They thought wrong.
Venom heaved himself up, snapping the tendril back to him and feeling the comforting weight of their Spider fall into their arms. He caught sight of the Silver Bitch turned with what looked like a rifle merged with a cannon and shout:
"Don't let him get away!"
They made a break for it, clutching the limp weight of Spider-man to their chest and bounding toward the dark recesses of the Library's lobby, the dust from the debris still floating in their air. They were about to crash through the door when Venom heard a very odd, very low sound incoming. There wasn't an explosion, no flash of light, yet he felt like he'd been punched hard in the back with an ice pick, hard enough that it felt like their spine would snap. Agony. They hit the heavy interior doors and ripped them off the hinges, lurching forward and just barely managed to remain standing, stumbling and scrambling for purchase on rubbery legs.
It seemed like a good idea to just lie down. Rest a bit.
But the pounding of pursuing feet made that impossible.
Working more on instinct than anything else, Venom snapped up a wrist and shot forth a line of web, pulling himself up into the air with a single motion to go crashing against the second floor window of the lobby. Shattered glass sparkled around them. He was startled to find his breaths were coming in ragged, wheezing pants, and knew it wasn't from the shot alone. That silver human - that bitch – had laced it with something, hadn't she? Yes, they remembered her saying something…she'd laced her weapon with something, because the verg didn't shoot the typically ineffective bullets. Bullets didn't cause this much pain. Bullets also didn't have this feeling of something inside them, running through their very veins, and slowly but surely invading their shared nervous system.
Sedatives?
Animal tranqs.
The next few minutes seemed to be a blur to Venom, merging into one another with only brief flashes of reality; a glimpse of a window, a wall coming perilously close, the fading sound of sirens, and eventually the sense of it all sinking away. A kind of deadly numbness settled into their bones. The only thing that seemed to remain a constant was the solid feel of Spider-man's warm body pressed up against theirs, one of his toned arms hooked about loosely around their neck, his head resting against their chest. He still hadn't quite regained consciousness and Venom wasn't even sure how long he would be conscious.
A few minutes. Maybe.
Venom was distantly aware of swinging himself into up onto a ledge and scrambling over the brick wall of some kind of dingy playground, closed off for demolition, before he finally fell to his knees, Spider-man dropping with a thud from slack claws onto dusty gravel. Wheezing, Venom struggled to breathe, his tongue lolling out between fangs, eyes hooded as he pushed himself to his feet, staggered back toward the wall a distance away, and leaned heavily against it. Just a minute to catch their breath. The Spider would be fine, and what was more, he wasn't in Sandman's possession.
Just a minute was all they needed.
Sliding down into a sitting position, Venom slumped over. He heard someone gasping for air and it took a few long, confused seconds to realize it was him.
Just a minute…
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"Ugh…"
Spider-man groaned. Since when had he been fed through a cement mixer and spat out?
Another moan. Ouch. Ouchouch with another ouch on top of that.
Let's not do that again, Spider-man thought. Owwwww.
Being in this much pain probably wasn't a good thing, especially when his memory of how he came to be like this was all muddled. All he remembered was trying to fight off Sand Dude and then….nothing. Just this buzzing in his head, which happened to be filled to the top with the very small cotton balls that seemed to be in his mouth. Dry, that was what it felt like. There really wasn't a better description for it aside from being really cotton bally.
The next couple of long seconds he devoted to trying to push himself up seemed to stretch on forever, and Spider-man was ridiculously proud of himself when he did finally manage to sit up. Bits and pieces of what happened were starting to come back. The fight had ended up at the Library, with Sand Dude hot on his heels, hadn't it? For some reason he remembered the sensation of compressed air against his skin and something pricking him through his costume – like a needle or something. Kinda reminded him of that time Aunt May took him to get his wisdom teeth removed, actually. Not fun.
Where am I, anyway?
Glancing around before him, it was pretty obvious this wasn't the Library: there were a few rusted jungle gyms and see-saws that were probably death traps waiting to happen in the distance, with browning weeds scattered across the lot and a few sparse trees here and there. He couldn't imagine how in the world he could possibly have made it from the Library to here (wherever here was), and anyway, he would've liked to think he could have picked a place with better cover. Spider-man cradled his head, nursing it for a moment as he tried to control the urge to just be gloriously sick all over the ground. There was no way he was throwing up with his mask on.
Spider-man sat up and rested his head between his knees, waiting for the nausea to pass. Definitely on par with getting wisdom teeth removed.
After a few minutes he thought he'd be fit to stand. While standing up looked daunting, considering how hard it had been to sit up, he knew he couldn't just sit here and wait for Sand Dude and his buddies to find him. What had that been all about anyway? I didn't even see him that time, Spider-man thought, closing his eyes and waiting for the pavement between his feet to stop spinning. I was just minding my own business. I could've sworn he came after me this time. It almost felt like he had been targeted, especially when he finally remembered that he had been shot with something before that big blank in his memory. Was it about his secret identity?
Spider-man wobbled but managed proudly to remain standing, concentrating and concentrating hard on keeping his legs under him. They seemed to want to have the consistency of Jell-O. Okay, easy does it. Baby steps, right? He turned around and suddenly paused, stiffening, as he saw what was behind him. Oh my God.
There was a body of a blond-haired man few feet away, slumped up against the wall in a half-sitting position, and not moving, his face obscured from the way his head rested on his chest. There wasn't any clothing on him, which was alarming in itself. Spider-man had seen a lot more than just about any kids his age, but finding naked dead people lying about wasn't one of those things. Hesitantly he took a step, and then another over, deciding to be cautious.
"Hey?" he said. "Sir, are you okay? Or, uh, alive? Please, please tell me you're alive."
No answer. Okay, don't panic. Could just be unconscious. Absolutely no need to freak out, Peter. You've faced Norman Osbourne: you can handle this. If he's…not alive, then you can just call the police.
Feeling a bit braver, but still somewhat apprehensive (hopefully this man really wasn't dead), Spider-man closed the distance and crouched down, laying a hand on the man's shoulder. Warm still. Careful not to move the body, he touched his fingers to his neck, and breathed an audible sigh of relief. Still had a pulse. It was labored, but it was there, at least. While he felt like a steamroller had run over him for kicks, Spider-man knew he couldn't just leave this poor guy here in good conscience just because he didn't feel up to it.
It was when he got a good look at the man's face that he started having second thoughts.
Eddie Brock!
"Oh jeez!"
Spider-man back peddled frantically with a sharp gasp.
Suddenly panicking uncontrollably looked like a pretty good idea, and he was just about to turn and get out of there when that annoying conscience kicked in again.
Slowly he turned around, cringing, and stared at the unconscious man, hands on his slim hips as he bit his lip. Despite the fact he knew Brock hated him, nevermind the fact he was host to a crazy oil slick from space who also hated him, Spider-man just couldn't shake the feeling that leaving him here wasn't the right thing to do. It was probably the safest, but it wasn't the right thing to do and he wasn't that big a big fat jerk to leave the guy out here without even any clothes.
At least he really did look unconscious, Spider-man reflected, bending down again and examining Brock. His eyes were closed, but there were dark spots under them, as if he hadn't been getting very much sleep recently. His lips were cracked, and slightly parted as he breathed, and he looked deceptively harmless, as if he was just sleeping. There didn't seem to be any blood or even any bruises, no sign of any kind of struggle aside from the thin sheen of sweat covering his body.
"What're you doing out here, Brock?" Spider-man muttered, uneasy. Why would Brock of all people be lying in the middle of nowhere, naked (he was still young enough to be flustered by it, and blushed), and unconscious? "Where's the symbiote?"
Maybe it gave up. Ditched Brock and decided to call it quits, maybe try to go somewhere else. Spider-man couldn't really see that as being very plausible, but he was willing to hope. At any rate, he wasn't going to leave Brock here. Hoping that the former reporter wasn't just faking being unconscious, Spider-man bent down and carefully draped a limp arm over his shoulders, hoisting them up as he made sure he had a good grip on the man. Brock was far heavier than he looked, Spider-man realized, giving an annoyed grunt. At least he's not trying to pop my head off, he thought, trying to be positive.
I'm probably going to regret this for life. If I knew you would care, Brock, I'd totally say you owe me for this
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Apparently trying to explain what you were doing holding an unconscious, naked guy was a lot harder than it looked.
At least the cop in the emergency room lobby wasn't shooting at him or trying to arrest him (or both). Spider-man decided he liked Officer April already.
"So you found this John Doe in some kind of park?" the female police officer frowned. "No signs of a struggle?"
Spider-man shook his head. He just wanted to go home, but he had to answer what questions he could. "Not that I could see. I…just thought something looked suspicious, so I swung down and there he was. That's how he was like when I found him there."
"Right…you do know this looks highly suspect?"
He sighed. "Lady, you don't know the half of it," he muttered under his breath.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Nothing, it's not important," Spider-man said, waving it away. "Look, I'm kind of worried about him. Is there any way to keep tabs on him?"
The cop raised an eyebrow at this. "We're not supposed to release any personal information, especially not to masked vigilantes such as yourself. I'm sorry, but that's how it is. Off the record, I admit I think what you're doing is a good thing for New York," April added, lowering her voice, and offering a tight-lipped smile. "We could use more people like you."
"I…uh…thanks, I guess."
"Still, good guy or not, I can't allow you access. I'm sorry. I'm sure his family and friends will appreciate what you did, but you'll have to let ER take it from here."
April made as if to go toward back toward the counter, and then seemed to think better of it, turning back toward Spider-man and clapping him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry about him, Spider-man. They can take care of him. We'll find out who he is and get him back to his loved ones as soon as possible."
That's what I'm worried about. Behind his mask, Spider-man frowned nervously. Maybe Brock would wake up and decide to change his ways, rethink the whole let's-kill-Spidey plan and try to live a normal life that didn't involve killing and Peter Parker. Would he flip out when he found himself here? Spider-man hoped not. Brock hadn't been in the most stable state of mind last time he'd seen him several months ago, but maybe he chilled out since then. You don't know though. It could be just wishful thinking and he knew he'd have to stake this place out and make sure Brock didn't hurt any of the civilians here.
Great, Spider-man sighed inwardly. This probably meant he had to actually visit the man. As if school and a job weren't enough.
Officer April nodded toward the doors. "You should probably leave now. It won't be good for you if you stick around."
Ouch.
"Point taken. Thanks for the help, officer."
That went a lot better than expected, all things considering. His head still felt funky and his body tingly and just plain weird, but he wasn't getting pummeled by Sand Dude, and he at least knew where Brock was. That and he wasn't being chased out of the ER as if he was some kind of criminal, so he had to admit that things went…well, surprisingly. It was kind of nice to be able to exit the scene with some dignity.
Still wasn't looking to that visit though.
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Humans were funny, bizarre little creatures. For example, sometimes in their night cycles they had mental fantasies that played in their brains like their primitive movies, often for hours at a time. Often they were nonsensical, with no apparent beginning or end until the human in question suddenly woke up disoriented and confused. Eddie Brock said they were "dreams" and that everyone did it. From the symbiote's point of view, it was a miracle humans even evolved this far, considering they spent their night cycles in such a useless and vulnerable fashion.
There didn't seem to be a set purpose for these "dreams" as far as the symbiote knew, only that they happened and couldn't be controlled. Usually they were utter nonsense, figments from the strange human imagination, and it was then that the symbiote tuned it out as irrelevant and distracting. While they were indeed bonded, there was really no way to shut off what it was inconvenient and so it had to put up with its host's mental activities even when he was unconscious.
Eddie Brock was dreaming now. It had taken some time to recover from the sedatives that silver human injected them with, but the host was at the moment sleeping calmly, after suffering the bewildered surprise of finding himself in the emergency room with no recollection as to how he'd gotten there. The female police officer that greeted him made the mistake of clarifying: Spider-man found him unconscious somewhere and rescued him. And now he was safe, she added, so he should get some rest because she had questions she needed to ask tomorrow, both about himself and if he knew Spider-man.
Eddie Brock didn't dream of Spider-man, although the thought of the Spider they lusted for always lingered.
No, he dreamt of Peter Parker. He dreamt of the day when he first met the boy….
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He's just a kid was Eddie Brock's first thought. Way too young to even be considering professional journalism. He was what, fifteen? Sixteen? Not even in college yet! He hadn't even started thinking about college at that age, much less what he planned to do afterward. While Eddie could see why having someone computer-savvy around - as this Peter Parker was supposed to be – could be useful, he didn't see what that had to do with him being told he could start trailing the real reporters around. While he hadn't met him yet, he still was leery about the whole idea. It seemed like a waste of time to him.
The important thing was that Jameson didn't seem to think so.
"Take a seat, Eddie," Jameson said, waving at one of the chairs.
Eddie sat down and tried futilely to get comfortable. The man had some of the hardest chairs he'd ever sat in, and even seemed to take relish in it, watching his employee fidget and chewing his cigar. Eddie was convinced those things would kill him someday.
Or try, anyway. Jameson was a hardass through and through. It would take more than a bunch of pussy cigars to kill him.
"Boss, I just don't know about all this," Eddie began, frowning. "I can cover the Quentin Beck conference on my own."
Jameson rounded his desk, but didn't sit down. He liked to stand while those in his office sat – gave him a sense of power and was a small reminder of what the hierarchy was.
"Parker's coming with you."
The blond refused to give up. "You just said he only maintains the Bugle website. I just don't see why your programmer needs to tag along with me on a beat. I think I can handle a simple conference."
"He's coming whether you like it or not," Jameson said, staring the journalist straight in the eye. "He should have some first hand experience with what we do here. It'll give him a better outlook on his work on our site. From his poor attendance record, you'd think he didn't take his job seriously."
Eddie fumed quietly. He didn't think his boss was saying he was a bad journalist, necessarily, but it still felt that way all the same. It wasn't a good feeling either, not when he took very real pride in his abilities and his work. He put everything into his job here at the Bugle, and not just because he was newly married: he honestly thought he could do some real good with reporting. It felt right to be here, working for Jameson and working for the Daily Bugle.
"I hope you're not asking me to baby-sit him," said Eddie.
"It's not a question of asking. I'm telling you to."
Eddie shook his head. "I guess there's no changing your mind, is there?"
"Not really, no."
Christ. There was no working around it then. He'd just have to suck it up and deal with the kid dogging his heels for the day, Eddie supposed. It wasn't that long anyway. It would be an exercise of his patience, but Anne said he could improve in that area to begin with. His wife was right. Seemed kind of stupid to get so caught up over whether or not a kid he hadn't even met yet tagged along and took notes.
"Okay," said Eddie. "I'll try to do what I can. I just hope he doesn't follow so close that I trip over him."
Jameson broke into one of his typically fierce grins: it looked more like a snarl hooded by his mustache than anything friendly, but Eddie could tell he was pleased. "That's the spirit, Eddie."
Eddie checked his watch. "So where is this Parker anyway? Isn't he supposed to be here by now?"
The head editor heaved an annoyed sigh. "Fucked if I know."
"Not very professional, is he?"
"Flaky as hell, actually," Jameson admitted. "Not a complete moron like kids are these days, but he's an idiot when priorities are concerned."
That didn't sound very promising. Eddie wondered why the kid was even still working at the Bugle if he was this late consistently. Surely he'd run out of excuses or Jameson or Robbie would call him out on it. The Quentin Beck conference was today, and while reasonably close, he still wanted to scope out the place, maybe see if he could nab an exclusive with Beck himself. Waiting for Parker to show up was only delaying the chance of that happening.
It was another ten minutes before he did show, rushing into the office half out of breath.
"I'm s-sorry I'm late," the boy said, trying to catch his breath. "E-Emergency with my aunt's, um, allergies."
"Again?" Jameson sounded incredulous. He made a cutting motion with his hand. "Nevermind! Peter Parker, this is Eddie Brock. You've kept us waiting."
Eddie stood up and faced Parker, sizing him up. Peter Parker was shorter than he, but could potentially put on a growth spurt. Despite his state of clothing (part of his work shirt was untucked), he had that wiry look of someone who was either an acrobat or who spent a good portion of his life running from school bullies. Looking at the kid, Eddie decided it was probably the latter: something about Parker just screamed bully material, he thought, feeling some sympathy for the kid. Probably explained why he was so interested in a respectable job like the Bugle, although Eddie was of the mind that Peter needed to clean up his act if he did. For starters, cutting that shaggy, mousy brown hair. It wasn't hippie length, but it was long enough that it looked like Parker didn't care too much about his appearances.
One of the things he would have to learn was that appearances could make or break you in this job. It wasn't improbable that an exclusive with someone could turn sour if you didn't look or act professional and clean cut. At least he had a good complexion, his youthful face clear of noticeable blemishes.
Eddie held out his hand. Parker shook it enthusiastically. Eddie couldn't help wincing at the handshake, feeling as if the kid was crushing his fingers together.
Noticing this, Parker sheepishly let go. "Sorry, Eddie."
"It's okay," said Eddie, giving his hand a rueful shake. A person's handshake said loads about them, in his opinion. Despite Parker's appearances, it looked like self-confidence wasn't one of his problems. "Strong grip there."
"Got ahead of myself, I guess."
Jameson rolled his eyes. "We done with the pillow talk?" he demanded. "This's only a day deal, Parker. You'll accompany Eddie here for today and tonight. He'll be reporting on the Quentin Beck press conference at the Javits Convention Center about his next project, so you need to be on the ball." He shook an accusing finger at Parker. "No excuses. You need to be there on time and be Eddie's shadow. I want you glued to his hip and inseparable."
"I will."
Jameson chewed on his cigar for a moment and then nodded. "Okay. I'll expect some good stuff when you both get back. We'll see how well you work together: maybe I'll like what I see, but I'm not getting my hopes up."
"John'll be there, right?" Eddie asked. He met Jameson's son once before, right before he left to go train to be an astronaut.
The head editor fairly glowed with pride. "You better believe it. If you can, get some pictures of him with Quentin Beck. Now go get in gear before they start the conference without you."
Eddie herded Parker out of his boss's office, feeling more like a babysitter than a journalist and not too happy at the hint that this might not be the last of it. They rode the elevator down together to the parking garage, Parker fidgeting with the mangy green backpack he'd run in with. Eddie glanced over, frowning.
"You know, you can leave that in my car if you want. You don't need your books where we're going."
Parker blinked and looked a bit nervous, giving that deer-in-the-headlights look. "Thanks, but I think I'm cool," he said, shouldering his backpack.
"Okay, lesson one, Parker," Eddie said, feeling for the teenager despite himself. "Appearances. We have to look professional where we're going and lugging in a backpack that looks like that is the first way to shoot that impression down."
Parker flushed. "I didn't know that."
"You should probably just leave it in my car. It'll be safe there: I just don't think you should bring it in is all I'm saying."
"Okay…I guess," Parker sounded mildly flustered. "I'll do that."
The drive to the Javits Center wasn't as awkward as he thought he would. It was out of habit of his job that he inquired about Parker's background, but the kid seemed more than happy to talk about his aunt and his friends, although he didn't seem to have much in the way of hobbies from what Eddie could tell. He seemed awfully vague about what he did in his free time, but Eddie chalked it up to a teenager thing. He'd gone through the same stage of feeling like what he did in his free time was his business alone.
Eddie focused on navigating the streets, but he didn't mind answering any of the questions Parker asked. Yes, he was married, and he really liked his job at the Daily Bugle. He wouldn't trade it for the world. Yes, he did have to agree Jameson was hard, but that was what made him a good, focused employer, as far as he was concerned. Besides, he meant well even if he was a dick about it.
Parker gaped. "Did you mean that?"
"What?"
"You…uh, just called him a dick."
Eddie shrugged. "I'd be lying if I said he was all sunshine and rainbows. The truth is he can be a bit of a dick at times. Look at how he treats his vets. Like Robbie, for example."
Parker frowned, looking out the window at the pedestrians crossing the street in front of them. "I don't know…"
"I'm not saying he's a bad man, but obviously he was born without the connection in the brain between being nice and being tactful that the majority of humanity has," Brock pulled into the parking lot of the Javits Center, trying to find a spot, and concentrating. "I'm saying this and I like Jameson. Robbie's practically his best friend and even he has to agree."
"What was that about professionalism?" Parker quipped.
Eddie finally found a spot, and pulled in. He began rummaging in the back of the car for his camera and press pass, handing an extra one to Parker. "Ha, ha, funny. The difference is I respect Jameson and can understand that him being a dick's necessary for the job. He knows what he wants and gets things done. By the way, tuck in that shirt."
"Oops. Sorry."
Eddie led the way toward the entrance of the Lavits Center, Parker dogging his heels and trotting to catch up like a lost puppy. He'd done the smart thing and left his old green backpack in Eddie's car, although he had somehow scrounged up his own camera, and was now clutching it in his hands.
"You take pictures?" Eddie nodded toward the camera. "I thought you were just a programmer."
Parker offered a shy grin. "I sometimes do. I managed to take a few pictures of Spider-man for Jameson."
Eddie almost missed a step at this. He had been trying to get a picture of Spider-man for several weeks and here a mere fifteen year old did what he couldn't! Knowing this rankled a bit, actually, especially when it felt like he'd been upstaged somehow. "That's incredible," Eddie managed, swallowing. "I've been trying to do the same thing. Spider-man's really hard to catch on camera. It's like he's got some weird sixth sense if you even so much as point one at him."
Parker gave an embarrassed cough. "It's just Parker luck, that's all. I just got lucky and he didn't see me."
"So what do you like better, photography or programming?" Eddie asked.
"Photography," Parker replied. "But it's not as steady compared to programming."
By now they had reached the doors, the lobby already crowded with the press from various news stations and papers. Eddie showed his badge at the door, craning his head and trying to see if there was anyone he could recognize. All of the major news stations were there, and he even saw some correspondents from the Daily Globe. Eddie scowled at this. Not them again. He'd heard all about their shady tactics and wanted no part in it, not even when they offered far better pay than the Daily Bugle to entice him to defect. Jameson might be a dick, as he'd told Parker, but Brock happened to be loyal to said dick. Hoping the throng of press was chaotic enough that the Globe correspondents wouldn't see him, Eddie turned to Parker:
"I don't know if you know anything about Quentin Beck, but he's apparently going to be huge in Hollywood," he said. "Some kind of big special effects guy, but he's also got a bit of a criminal track record, which explains the mob here. You bet half of them wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the juicy details of his past life."
Parker glanced around as if hoping to see Beck himself.
"Criminal track record? Why would it be such a big deal?"
"In the eighties he tried robbing a bunch of big department stores. The final count was something like ten of them," Eddie paused, "Failed each time, but you have to admit the guy was persistent. Anyway, the story is he turned over a new leaf and decided he rather work the movie business as a legit. Don't ask me how he got off so easily. He used his, ah, infamy to get funds and such for this mystery project. That and apparently he's also very much against the whole masked vigilante deal," he added offhandedly.
"How come?"
Looking around, Eddie realized that exclusive with Beck would have to wait. "Remember that string of robberies? And getting bagged for each one? A superhero did the bagging each and every time. I heard this conference might have something to do with his anti-vigilante view."
"Oh," Parker said, looking troubled.
"Welcome to the Conference," a well-dressed woman said, speaking through a megaphone, voice tinny. "Thank you for being here. If you will please follow me this way, we can begin filling the room and Mr. Beck will be begin."
Eddie began pushing his way through the crowd, motioning for the kid to follow him. If he was going to have to shout questions and try to get some good pictures, he'd rather do it from the front row than trying to do it in the back like an idiot who didn't think it proper reporter behavior to elbow your way to the front and get the money shots. The crowd filed into the conference room, which looked closer to a theater than anything else, the "stage" elaborate and framed on each side by thick, rich, royal blue curtains. Eddie positioned himself slightly off to the side, next to a WNBC tripod, careful not to jostle the expensive equipment. Not exactly the center (the Daily Globe beat him there), but close enough.
"Press conferences like this usually will have a Q and A session afterward," Eddie said to Peter, "Beck will most likely be introduced by someone and then he'll have his say. Basically we just sit through it and take pictures until the Q and A. Sometimes they'll be nice and organized, but there's a chance it could be a free-for-all with people just yelling them out. Just look sharp and it should be fine."
Eddie fell silent as the same woman from before mounted the stage, a bright spotlight following her. It seemed rather dramatically over the top, but he supposed it fit with Quentin Beck's profile.
"Thank you for coming, associated press. Quentin Beck, a native of Modesto, California, is glad to be in New York, and will be happy to field any questions or comments after the presentation. He hopes that you will give him your full attention and consider his words: he is confident that you will all agree with the specific points of his presentation."
The woman held out a hand, sweeping it behind her.
"I give you…Mr. Beck!"
The lights dimmed further, the female aide stepping aside into the darkness as all eyes turned to the front. Brock raised an eyebrow as bright green smoke effects began to flood the stage, resembling nothing more than a bank of soupy fog rolling in from the right. It slowly overtook the front of the stage and oozed down, flowing around the crowd's ankles. Theatrics. Eddie sighed. At least all he had to do was report objectively on this. Subjectively he thought this was way over the top and utterly inane. Next to him, Parker gave a startled sniff, as if smelling something weird, and clapped a hand over his nose. Eddie ignored him, watching the stage.
There was a flash like lightning; a fountain of more smoke – blue, this time - flared up in the middle of the stage, backlit by the light and illuminating the figure of a man suddenly standing there. As the blue smoke billowed and dissipated into those closest, the man stepped forward and bowed.
"I am Quentin Beck," Beck said. Eddie couldn't help the beginnings of an incredulous smirk. Was he wearing a cape? "And I have a message today that I think you will find it most imperative to spread to greater New York."
He then began to ramble on about some kind of movie, as well as some kind of invention that would "revolutionize' the world of entertainment for a good half hour. In the middle of it he suddenly launched into a tirade against "the costumed anti-heroes" of the world and how everyone was better off without them. Eddie took mental notes, knowing Jameson would eat up this business about anti-superheroes and love it. It was when Beck launched into the specifics of New York's superheroes and how he would turn New York against them that Eddie noticed one of two things:
For some reason he felt really weird. Lightheaded. Tipsy, even.
Was he imagining it or was the room starting to tilt pleasantly?
And second, where was Parker?
Eddie felt nice and heavy, a bit drowsy (though he couldn't understand why, considering he'd run through several Red Bulls on the way to the Bugle offices), and it seemed somehow right to just turn back to Beck and listen to his rather lovely speech. And it suddenly did seem to be a good speech, even though in the back of Eddie's mind he knew it to be utterly ridiculous and chock full of logical fallacies. But somehow he couldn't muster up the ability to care.
"And now we have Spider-man," Beck was saying, gazing out over the increasingly glassy faces of the press in front of him. For some reason he was now wearing a fishbowl on his head, Eddie noticed, and thought it was the most handsome, shiniest thing he'd ever seen in his life.
Beck continued to scold the silent room, shaking a finger as one would at a child: "You allow him to run across your beautiful city and yet he preys on the everyday man in the name of help where it isn't needed. For shame, New York. For shame….but now I will be there to help you, beautiful New York, to be rid of this menace. He will be an example to all other masked vigilantes out there. I aim to kill him, you see," Beck smiled benignly. "And I think you all should help me, starting with you, the associated press."
Eddie found himself agreeing without knowing why. He meant to turn to Parker and asked if he agreed with these rather salient points when he suddenly remembered the kid had vanished. What was it Jameson said? I want you glued to his hip and inseparable. No excuses.
That applied to Eddie too, didn't it?
Parker was his responsibility.
Concern flooded into the blond, dashing away for the moment the feeling of utter contentment and faith in the speech. Where was Parker? Now that he wasn't entirely focused on Beck, he found himself growing increasingly worried, and baffled as to why his body seemed to not want to obey him. It felt like he was about to faint only he was still awake, treading the edge of awareness. Confused by his lethargy and starting to feel decidedly alarmed without being able to say exactly what was wrong, Brock began to push through the other, unresisting reporters, scanning the crowd for Parker's mess of shaggy brown hair.
He wasn't here. Peter wasn't here! Eddie staggered forward, forgetting about Beck and his far-too-attractive fishbowl head.
"Aim to kill me? Might want to step in line, pal."
Eddie turned at the alien sound of a voice that wasn't Beck's hypnotic one, and froze, swaying and feeling like he was about to tilt over with the way the room was spinning and turning. The owner of the voice was a blue and red costumed form, wiry and leanly muscled, and currently perched impossibly on the ceiling. Upside down.
Spider-man.
The superhero dropped from the ceiling and landed neatly in a crouch on a camera tripod a few meters from Beck.
"I'm probably going to sound really, really stupid, but I've got to ask," Spider-man said. "Is that a fishbowl on your head?"
Beck – if that was even Beck, he wasn't dressed like him at all aside from the purple cape – stepped away from the podium, his cape swirling at armored ankles. "So you finally showed up."
"You the next big bad supervillian, Mysterio? It's kind of hard to take you seriously with that on your head, you know," Spider-man quipped.
Beck flared, his hands glowing red. "My name isn't 'Mysterio', you insolent brat!"
Spider-man tapped a finger to his chin. "I don't know, I rather like Mysterio. It's got a great ring to it - Jeez, everyone's a critic!" he jumped out of the way of a fireball that singed the curtain behind him, landing right next to Beck and going right up to the glass dome covering his head. "Don't tell me you came to kick my butt all the way from California and you didn't even think of a name?"
Another fireball, easily dodged with a flip backward, and then Mysterio turned toward the crowd of enthralled reporters, pointing his still smoking gauntlets at them. Spider-man stopped.
"How would you like to fight several hundred, Spider-man?" Mysterio demanded. "New York already hates you. I'm sure these fine people would like to show you their hate up close at my word. Or maybe you would like to just see them fry rather than fight them all? That gas you see around them just so happens to be highly flammable, and I imagine they would be quite happy to burn as they rend you limb from limb."
That gave Spider-man pause. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "So what is it you really want?"
"I want you. You will hand yourself over to me and I will unmask you for the fraud you are in public. I want everyone to know that masked freaks like you are blights on society and normal, hard-working people!"
Spider-man hung his head and then slowly held out his arms. "Okay, you win, Beck. Just…just don't hurt all these people."
"So even you can see reason," Mysterio sniffed. Reaching into the podium, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and approached Spider-man with them. Eddie couldn't help but watch, unable to turn away. There was something strange about Spider-man, like he'd met him before, and it had something to do with that insanely young voice. But the thought sank into the lethargy and Eddie only had the strength to try to push toward the stage, every now and then sagging against another unresponsive body as he wobbled on feet that weren't his.
Mysterio was almost at Spider-man, his back straight and triumphant.
Spider-man continued to hold out his hands as Mysterio slapped on the first end of the heavy duty handcuffs onto his wrist, the superhero's face tilted toward the left green armored gauntlet. "Hey, I just want to say something real quick, if it's okay with you."
"What?"
Spider-man looked up, his webbed mask mirrored in Mysterio's helmet.
"You know what I think? I think you're a big fat fake!" Spider-man ripped his hands free and lunged for the other man.
"You-!"
Mysterio slammed up against the wall with an audible crack of thick glass meeting brick. A section of it continued to fracture and fell away from the dome, tinkling, and revealing the face of the man underneath. Spider-man leaned close, holding him up easily several feet from the floor by the front of his reinforced shirt
"Next time you showboat, make sure you've got real weapons to use against me! Your gauntlets don't shoot anything but smoke, Mysterio!"
Beck struggled to break free, eyes blazing with fury. "Are you sure you want to be threatening me, brat? The reporters out there will do what I say – that was no bluff."
"I'll take my chances," Spider-man returned. "Since your big scary fireballs weren't so scary after all, just fancy pyrotechnics."
"Kill h-"
A gloved fist hammered into the rest of the glass, shattering it, and impacted with Beck's face. "Yeah, let's not." Spider-man let go of the unconscious man, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground with an audible thunk. There was a loud whoosh and Beck's right gauntlet abruptly lit up, sending a very real flamethrower's gout up into the curtains and setting them alight.
"Oops," said Spider-man.
Eddie's head didn't feel any clearer and his body was still torn between reviving and passing out, but he was pretty sure the theater suddenly being on fire was a bad thing.
That "oops" hadn't been very encouraging either.
Spider-man shouted to the dazed crowd. "Everyone please head to the exits in an orderly fashion if you can! And by fashion, I mean just get out of here!"
The throng of reporters dissolved into a panicked frenzy as some of them began snapping out of their daze, staggering drunkenly this way and that, bumping into another and tripping over each other and camera equipment. Smoke – real smoke – began to billow into the room as Eddie sought to fight his way through the reporters and correspondents streaming past him in a disorganized stampede, the room swirling in a way that wasn't at all pleasant, as it was earlier, and was now just nauseating. He had to find Parker. The thought kept circling in his head. Parker was his responsibility and he wasn't going to disappoint Jameson.
After what seemed like eternity between his own body's weakness and the oily black smoke darkening the room, Eddie reached the stage, where Spider-man was throwing the unconscious Mysterio over his shoulder.
"Spider-man!" Eddie slurred.
The superhero jerked up in surprise, almost tossing Mysterio back onto the floor. "Eddie!"
Eddie bulldozed over the fact Spider-man somehow knew his name. It seemed like a passing curiosity; he was preoccupied with just trying to keep that webbed mask in focus since it was so determined to swim dizzily in his vision. "I…'s a kid. Peter Parker. Gotta…gotta find 'im."
Spider-man seemed to relax. "I'll find him. You just get outside, okay?"
The blond shook his head. Spider-man wasn't understanding, dammit. The kid was still out there and he couldn't be expected to know what he looked like. He was just saying that to get Eddie out of here and didn't understand he wasn't going anywhere without the kid in sight and in tow. Spider-man didn't understand that it was Eddie's job to look out after Parker and make sure he got back to Jameson in one piece.
Eddie decided to go look for Parker himself, and had even turned to leave when his body finally made up its mind and said screw this, we're done for now, and promptly pitched him backward into nothingness.
"Breathe, Eddie!"
The next thing he was aware of was a sensation of swimming, only it wasn't his body doing it, it was his brain and it was pretty damn weird to have your brain swimming in what looked more like a thick pool of oil than anything else. It was really hard to breathe too, his chest constricting as something pressed up and down on it in a steady pumping motion. It felt an awful lot like a fist, now that he thought about it. What was a fist doing hammering away at his chest? Even stranger was the feeling of someone bending close to his numbed face, pinching his nose (which made it even harder to breathe, in Eddie's opinion), tilting back his head, and pressing their mouth to his.
Air rushed into his lungs with the contact. His chest expanded. The mouth didn't taste particularly good – like ashes, as if something was burning – but it gave him the priceless ability to breathe.
Even on the unconscious level, Eddie was hungry for the next contact.
"Come on, breathe," a grunt, as someone returned their attention back to pumping urgently up and down on his chest. "I know you can do it, Eddie! You had the guts to call Jameson a dick, so how's a stupid little fire going to stop you? Breathe for me now, come on."
His vision swam into some focus as the giver of air bent down again after pumping at his chest for a bit. His closed eyelids briefly flickered. For a delirious second, Eddie caught a glimpse of a mask, red and ribbed with black webs, pulled up just over someone's nose and revealing a strong, young jaw and firm lips that were soon pressed over his and breathing for him. When that warm mouth closed over his slack one, and shared the precious air, it seemed right, and a basic, instinctual part of him was glad to take, greedy for more.
Needing more.
Suddenly he could feel his lungs doing what they were supposed to be doing in the first place and breathing for him. A choking cough wracked his frame as he sucked in his first breath for himself, gasping, eyes closed, and still walking that fine line between consciousness and oblivion. Eddie felt his body lift from the ground as he struggled to take in more fresh air, feeling it pierce into his lungs and yet desperately gulping more. It tasted of the same ashes as the giver's lips. Eddie's hand shot out and grabbed onto something, anything, with a deathgrip. A hand closed over his.
"He's okay now," Spider-man's voice floated above him. "I think he needs space, so let's give it to him, people."
The hand withdrew. As he sucked in trembling breaths that grew increasingly stronger, Eddie became gradually aware of other voices around him, the painful wail of sirens, and a bizarre sound like a waterfall in the distance. Someone dropped down next to him and began softly slapping his cheek with a warm hand; gentle taps, really, but they guided him back to consciousness all the same.
"Come on, Eddie," Spider-man pleaded. "Come on, you can do it."
Eddie's gray eyes drifted open, and the world around him slowly wavered back into focus, with blurs resolving into shapes and finally into things he could actually recognize. He noted with dazed surprise that it wasn't Spider-man, like he'd thought, at his side, but gawky, clueless Peter Parker peering down at him with those utterly average brown eyes of his. For some reason Brock's eyes slid down from the kid's worried, soot-streaked face to his shirt and almost smiled, seeing a glimpse of red and blue, and not registering its implications:
"Y-your shirt's untucked," Eddie rasped.
Parker broke out into a relieved grin that lit up his dirty face even as he hurriedly tucked it back in. "You're okay! I was really worried about you."
Eddie gave another cough, his head starting to clear: you, it said, are in really crappy shape right now. "You made it out? How?"
"Spider-man," Parker said quickly. "He found me and took me out of there. He said you were looking for me."
The blonde resolved to just lie there for a while. The pavement under his back didn't feel too good, but he was more than happy to relish the idea of simply breathing again. "What's going on?" Eddie asked, disoriented. "The last thing I remember is…" he trailed off helplessly. Not much. What he did remember was the curtains on fire and that ominous "oops".
Parker glanced up, then back down. "As soon as people saw smoke from the Lavits, they called the cops and everything. They're trying to put out the fires and tend to everyone."
"And…." Brock sucked in a shaky breath, relieved he'd stopped coughing. His voice was still shot to hell though, coming out in a tortured whisper. "And what about Quentin Beck?"
"Police got him, I think. Hopefully he stays behind bars this time."
Parker hesitated and then spoke up again, looking down, his cheeks flushing as if ashamed. "Eddie…just so you know, I wanted to tell you that someone tried to break into your car while we were in there. They broke one of the windows. The back one. I guess they saw my backpack there and thought something valuable might be in there, and tried punching through it."
Anger was probably a good idea, but right now he was too damn exhausted to care. Eddie managed a feeble nod.
"Was there?"
"Was there what?"
"Was there anything valuable?" Eddie gazed up at Parker's face. "In your backpack."
The teenager looked away, and shook his head, still looking ashamed for some reason. "No, there wasn't anything valuable. I'm sorry about the window, Eddie."
"It's not your fault."
Parker looked as if he wanted to argue the point but then thought better of it, settling for nodding instead. They listened to the sound of the fire trucks – the source of that roaring sound like a waterfall – combating the blaze in the Lavits Center. Eddie debated the merits of trying to sit up now, but Parker held out his hand in a no, stay gesture, pressing him back down gently as if he was made of glass.
"You probably should take it easy, Eddie," he said, reaching up and wiping unconsciously at the big black soot spot on his cheek. It only succeeded in smearing it around even worse.
Eddie relaxed back with a weak sigh. A part of him wanted to jump up and get the scoop on whatever the hell happened, like a good reporter should, but he just didn't think he had it in him. It was hard enough to even stay awake and he had a monster of a headache, nevermind the fact his chest hurt and his mouth felt numb, bruised and aching. I have to stay awake, he thought, looking up at Parker's boyish, soot-covered face. He couldn't go scaring the poor kid, especially on a day like today.
He managed a faint smile. "Some first day on the field, huh, Parker?"
Peter Parker grinned crookedly.
"You've got a very exciting job, Mr. Eddie Brock."
To be continued...
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