Peter Parker watched Ben Urich moving around his office, rummaging around in filing cabinets for crumpled pieces of paper and dog-eared files, always knowing exactly where to find what he was looking for, even though the place looked like a bomb had hit it. He wondered how he could know where everything was in such an environment, but then a mental picture of his and MJ's bedroom at home flashed up in his mind, and he considered the question answered. The two of them kept it in a similar sort of state but they too knew where everything was – if she were still alive, Aunt May would have said "A place for everything, and everything in its place."
Peter thought he should interrupt Ben's furtive burrowing, and coughed gently to alert the grizzled old reporter to his presence. Ben looked up, adjusted his glasses slightly, and then said "Hello, Peter. Come on in."
"Hey, Ben," Peter replied. "Jonah says you need an ace photographer to help you out with your story."
"So why'd he send you, kid?" Ben said with a smile. "Good to have you on the team, Peter. Sit down and I'll give you what I know." He gestured to a wooden chair that had cracked leather padding on its seat, and on the backrest. Peter could see that it had once been a vivid burgundy but was now a sort of faded red color, streaks of paler leather showing through here and there where the dye had bled out completely. He sat down gingerly, expecting it to collapse under his weight, but the chair proved to be stronger than it looked, and supported him without much trouble. He relaxed and watched Ben sit in the chair opposite him, behind the oak desk with an overflowing ashtray and stacks of papers on its scarred surface. Ben sat back in his own chair and lit a Camel with practiced ease, the flame illuminating his face for a second and then clicking off as he stowed the lighter in his top pocket.
"You really ought to give those things up, Ben," Peter said, instantly knowing that Ben had probably heard that line a million times before. "They'll kill you." He thought he'd probably heard that one before too, but he said it anyway. Maybe one day Ben would take notice of it.
"Yeah, I know, kid," Ben replied. "But something's got to kill you in the end, right?" He smiled a wry smile and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the stale air of the office. Peter blinked and wrinkled his nose as the odor of the smoldering tobacco reached his nostrils. He supposed Ben had a point. But he had a job to do, so…
"What've you found out about this gang meeting, Ben?" he asked, deciding to cut to the chase as soon as he could.
Ben shrugged and shook his head. "Not much, Pete, but what I do have worries me. Seems that the Kingpin and Don Fortunato want this city all to themselves, and they're willing to wipe each other out to get what they want. From the looks of things, they don't care who they kill to get it, either. Homicide and gun crimes are through the roof. Hell's Kitchen is a bloodbath waiting to happen at the moment. A… friend of mine… tells me that stockpiles of weapons are being handed out to punks and lowlifes like candy on Halloween. He's stopped at least six separate gangs from blowing holes in one another with hollow-point ammunition and belts of seven-six-two." He shuddered. "Put in words of one syllable: it's bad, Peter. Real bad."
Peter guessed that Ben's "friend" had to be Daredevil. The Man Without Fear often confided in Ben Urich because of his connections, and the fact that Ben was a damn good journalist on top of that. As Spider-Man, he'd checked out stories with Ben more than once. He suspected that Ben would find out the connection between himself and Spider-Man at some point, if he hadn't already, but he found himself oddly unworried by that prospect. Aside from Robbie, there was nobody else at the Bugle he'd have trusted more to keep his secret.
Peter scratched at the back of his neck and exhaled loudly. "Doesn't sound good, does it?"
"No, Pete, it doesn't," Ben replied bleakly. "My friend tells me those two lowlifes are planning to meet on the waterfront at nine p.m., three days from now, in a warehouse that Hammerhead used to own. Fortunato and Fisk both say they have a legitimate claim to it, so it's as close to neutral territory as those two can get. We have until they get there to find out as much as we can about what's going down."
"Thanks, Ben," Peter said. "I hope we hit pay-dirt before it all blows up in our faces."
Ben looked up at him with worried eyes. "Me too, Pete. Me too."
Peter took his leave from Ben's office, more worried than he had ever been. He didn't want to see New York bathing in its own blood, not by a long shot. With that in mind, he'd have to try and do whatever he could both in and out of his Spider-Man costume. He decided to try and look up Daredevil to find out what the horned vigilante had learned about the Kingpin and Fortunato. Ducking into an alley and switching from his street clothes to his Spider-Man outfit, he webbed his clothes to a wall about twenty feet off the ground so as to make sure that his clothes were safe. He didn't want to have to websling all the way back to Forest Hills to get a fresh set of clothes – he barely had enough money to buy a new shirt, let alone a whole new wardrobe. Besides, he knew MJ would have something to say about that – she could, if pushed, nag with the best of them. He was just glad that didn't happen very often.
Firing off a web so that it stuck to the corner of the Bugle building, Spidey swung off in the direction of Hell's Kitchen. Gaining as much height as he could before he aimed another thick, sticky strand of webbing at another building, Spider-Man pursued a beeline course towards the lower, grimier buildings of Hell's Kitchen that he rarely, if ever, frequented. It would be a long trip, he knew, so he decided he'd try and hitch a lift on a truck or a van at some point. Web fluid was expensive to make, and he didn't want to waste any if he could possibly help it. MJ would have a field day with that, too. The notion brought a smile to his lips beneath the mask. If he'd told anyone else about that, they'd think she was an unrepentant harridan, but he knew better. He wouldn't change her for the world.
Not for the world.
Below him, he heard a bank alarm go off, and he sighed. There seemed to be bank robberies going on all the time in New York, and he wondered once again why common thugs thought it was a good idea to target banks in the super-hero capital of the world. Did they think, perhaps, that they would escape the notice of at least one of the spandex crowd? Slinging a couple of webs downwards so that he was able to somersault to the ground, landing gracefully on the points of his toes like a dancer, he waited outside the bank while whoever was inside finished up what they were doing. After a couple of seconds, a man in a strange, purple costume with green trim and a buzz saw mounted on top of his head burst out of the bank's wrecked front door, clutching bulging sacks that doubtless contained cash numbering in the thousands of dollars. Spidey folded his arms, his shoulders sagging in disbelief.
"You have got to be kidding me!"
It was the Grinder, a fourth-string small-time thug with delusions of grandeur and a highly acute sense of his own worth. Spider-Man thought that maybe he ought to call the Great Lakes Avengers, or the Lightning Rods, or whatever they were calling themselves this week. Maybe they'd be able to handle a moron like this without cracking up. Last thing Spidey had heard, the kid called Nova had managed to subdue this loser without much trouble, so they'd have even fewer headaches. Spidey was more scared of the fact that he'd thought of Nova, an experienced hero in his own right, as a "kid", than of the idiot who stood before him right now. He wondered if that ought to worry him.
"Yo, Grinder!" he called at the top of his lungs, as the would-be super-villain tried to get away. "Don't you think you should just, you know, give up? The cops are going to be here any minute, pal – and the fashion police want to question you for crimes against spandex."
The Grinder struck a melodramatic pose and dropped his bags of money on the concrete, scattering their contents onto the ground. "Give up? You insult me, Spider-Man! Why, you and I could have a battle that would be celebrated through the ages!"
"Yeah, yeah," Spider-Man said, webbing the Grinder's mouth shut with both hands. "I hear that three, four times a week. Coming from Doc Ock, I'd believe it. From you?" He waved a hand derisively, and webbed the Grinder's feet to the floor with the other. "Let's just say I'm less than impressed." Spraying a thick layer of webbing over the Grinder's primary "weapon" so as to gum up its workings and stop its whirling motion, Spider-Man left the humiliated Grinder in the capable hands of the NYPD. He thought that would be punishment enough for someone so full of themselves.
MJ had taken the day off for once – she didn't want to stay at home and clean up Peter's mess; not now that she had had a taste of what getting back into modeling was like. She wanted to get back into it more than ever, now, but not in front of the camera; not all of the time, anyway. She wanted to be able to show off designs that she herself had created, and perhaps even model them. With that in mind, she had spent the morning in an art shop in the Village, buying drawing paper, some colored HB pencils, and an easel. She juggled the heavy easel and bag that she was carrying so that each arm got a rest from its respective load. She sat down at one of the art house cafés that proliferated like rabbits throughout the Village, and ordered a cappuccino and a cream cake from the waitress that gravitated to her table almost instantly. All around her, MJ could see young men and women sketching passer-bys with charcoal and painting with watercolors almost everywhere that she looked. The artists were often clad in brightly colored clothes and sported outlandish tattoos or piercings, but they were obviously passionate about their work, and let everybody know as much through their outward dress and actions. MJ wondered if she should go and get the tattoo she had wanted for her eighteenth birthday, but hadn't been able to afford from waitressing tips alone, just so she could say that she was part of the crowd. She discounted that idea; Peter would freak out if he came home to find that she'd had a Chinese dragon tattooed onto her thigh.
Maybe I should just get my tongue pierced instead. Instantly she counted that out, too, because of the possible effects it would have on Peter. He'd probably have a heart attack.
Peter's just way too conservative, she thought, disappointed. I should shave his head while he's asleep and see what he thinks about that. The notion of Peter waking up with a head as bald as an egg made her chuckle furtively to herself. She had no doubt that he'd be less amused, and would scream bloody murder at her for who knew how long, but the look of horror on his face when he realized his thick head of chestnut hair was gone would be more than enough satisfaction for her.
The waitress came back, bringing with her a foamy, chocolate-sprinkled cappuccino and a fat, sugary cream cake. MJ took both of them gratefully and tipped the waitress far too much, before biting down into the deliciously doughy cake. Cream spilt into her mouth and she felt a pang of guilt – she had no illusions that this was frightfully bad for her – but then she decided that she had already burned off the equivalent calories carrying the easel and pencils around, so she finished the cake off with no further feelings of regret, sipping the cappuccino until all that was left of it was a thin froth at the bottom of the deep cup.
Then she had a flash of inspiration. She set up the easel and took out a fresh, sharp pencil, and began to sketch the people walking by her. She used her imagination to embellish their clothes here and there, giving shirts more vivid colors, skirts and trousers more fluted angles. It was hard at first, but she eventually settled into a rhythm, finding it easier the more that she did. In the top right corner of the paper she doodled a small, golden-armored Prodigy – one of the two identities that she had designed for Peter when he had adopted four new costumed nommes de guerre to hide from Norman Osborn. In the opposite corner she drew a tiny, leather-jacketed Ricochet – the other identity that she had helped Peter with. Eventually she had filled at least twenty pages of her sketchbook with drawings of ordinary passer-bys, and her hand ached from the constant, darting action of her pencil, which was worn down and blunted through constant use. Looking at her watch, she realized that she had spent four hours here in her seat, caffeine and sugar the only things that had been keeping her going. She folded the pad back over and collapsed the easel, and decided to make her way home. She needed a rest after expending so much energy.
Just wait till you see these, tiger...
Spider-Man leapt across the dark and grimy buildings of Hell's Kitchen, his webbing less than useful in the squat brick buildings of this part of New York. Oh well, he thought wryly, at least I can say I'm getting my fair share of exercise. He wondered how Daredevil managed to get around with that billy club of his – if webs weren't going to cut it, how could a simple nylon cord?
Ahead of him, suddenly, Spidey saw a red figure swinging expertly, somersaulting and twisting like a circus acrobat while his billy club's line hooked into the smallest nooks and crannies without any effort at all, or so it seemed. Swallowing his envy, Spidey followed Daredevil until he saw the other hero alight on a rooftop ahead of him. As he approached, he saw the other man standing motionless with his back to him.
"Daredevil!" he said urgently. "Matt, I –"
"No need to shout, Peter," Daredevil said, inclining his head slightly to one side. "I smelled you a couple of blocks over. And you make a lot of noise for someone who's supposed to be so agile."
"Ha, ha, Matt," Spidey replied. "You're a regular laugh riot."
"I haven't had as much practice as you, Peter, but I do try my best." Daredevil stowed his billy club on his hip and folded his arms. "What are you here for, Peter? This isn't your territory, so you must want something. Lessons in crimefighting, perhaps?" Spidey saw him let a slight smile cross his lips.
"I want to know if you can help me with Fortunato and the Kingpin," Spider-Man said, and watched the humor on Matt Murdock's face vanish. "Ben Urich told me a friend of his had told him when and where those two were meeting, and I figured he meant you. Don't tell me my faith in you was misplaced?"
Daredevil sighed and shook his head. "How bad did Ben tell you it's been getting out here?"
"In his exact words? Really bad," Spidey said sadly. "He said that there were kids using machine guns on each other."
"Yes, they are – and that's only the tip of the iceberg," Daredevil said softly. "The gangs are being pumped so full of heroin and cocaine that they'll do whatever the Kingpin or Fortunato tells them to do. I've found kids dead on the streets with needles in their veins – the last one I managed to get to was eleven years old. I managed to get him to a hospital, but I don't know if he'll survive without brain damage."
"Oh my God," Spider-Man whispered, the phrase less a blasphemy and more a prayer. "You're not kidding, are you?"
"I wish I was, Peter, but I'm not," Daredevil replied, shaking his head and scratching at the back of his neck. "I suppose Ben told you what I told him about when the meeting was supposed to happen?"
"He said Fortunato and Fisk were meeting in one of Hammerhead's old warehouses on the waterfront, three days from now."
"Right. That means we haven't got much time to figure out what to do. Any suggestions?"
"We should be at the meeting," Spidey suggested. "I think we both know that."
"Agreed," Daredevil said. "They might need us to stop them hurting one another."
"And we could catch soldiers for both sides," Spidey replied. "Fortunato and Kingpin aren't going to be there without serious firepower. We'd be doing this city a big favor if we put away most of their big-time enforcers."
"That's reason enough for me," Daredevil replied, his blind eyes looking up at the sky as he heard the first far-away rumblings of a summer thunderstorm on the way. "Sounds like a storm's on the way. That's going to make the garbage ferry smell even more than usual."
"Yeah," Spidey said ruefully. "That's not going to matter if there's no city left to save, though."
"It's still standing right now, Peter," Daredevil answered, laying a scarlet-gloved hand on Spider-Man's shoulder. "Let's make sure that it stays that way." He paused. "Peter, do you know what time it is?"
Spider-Man looked the watch he had concealed in one of the pouches on the belt he kept hidden beneath his costume, and saw that it was about five in the evening. He told Daredevil as much, and the scarlet-clad adventurer let out an exasperated breath. "Damn," he said. "I have to check up on a few things." He sighed. "Look, can we meet here again tomorrow night? I want to make sure we have a proper plan of attack."
"Good idea," Spidey replied. "I want this to go as smoothly as you do. I hate getting shot. It stings like you wouldn't believe."
"No kidding." Spidey could tell from the tone of Daredevil's voice that he knew whereof he spoke, and wished he didn't. "I'll see you tomorrow, then, Peter. Take care of yourself."
"You too, Matt," Spidey said, and watched Matt Murdock swing away effortlessly. He was glad that their conversation had ended, in truth, because besides this, he had another errand to run, of a far more personal nature. He had to visit Ravencroft – he'd been doing so for a few weeks now, just to keep an eye on Norman Osborn. He didn't trust the man enough to truly believe that he had lost his memory, but he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt right now. Time would tell, he guessed, if that assessment held true.
Norman Osborn sat on a chair in his cell, clothed in a simple set of cotton overalls that gave his name and precious little else. They were without pockets so as to prevent him from hiding sharp objects, and had buttons instead of a zip. The Ravencroft staff would take no chances with any of their charges – even one that seemed as lucid as Norman Osborn. His face was still scarred viciously with the Mark of Kaine, the spider-webbed ridges of flesh marring what had once been a brutally handsome, determined face. Now Norman Osborn looked like just another super-powered lunatic. On a chair in front of him, a Doctor Thompson sat cross-legged, a clipboard balanced precariously on his thighs.
"So, Norman," he said, "can you remember anything about your past now that we've told you who you are?"
"I told you the last time we had one of these little… chats, Doctor; no, I can't," Norman replied in a polite, but nonetheless clipped tone, that suggested he didn't like being asked these kinds of futile questions. "Why can't you accept that?"
"Because I've seen amnesia patients before, Norman, and I know that your life is hidden away in there somewhere. I'm just trying to bring it to the surface." He paused. "But you have to help me, Norman, or else you and I will get nowhere."
Behind the one-way mirror in the north wall of the interview room, Spider-Man stood with Ashley Kafka and watched Norman Osborn's session with Doctor Thompson. Spider-Man was still a little uneasy about Kafka, especially after the Chameleon affair that had left his wife at the mercy of Dmitri Smerdyakov, which had been the result of Ashley's misguided faith in human nature. But Kafka was, for all her bleeding-heart failings (and Spidey hesitated to even think the words anyway – he could hardly talk about having a bleeding heart), an excellent doctor, and he would have had no other one here with him now.
"So how's he doing, Doc?" he asked gingerly.
"As well as can be expected," Kafka said. "That burn on his face took a long time to heal, but what hurt him the most was not being able to remember what he was before those concrete chunks fell on him. He gets angry a lot of the time because of it – he's put quite a few orderlies in the infirmary with broken arms and sprained wrists. But we're going to help him regain his memory, if it's the last thing I do."
Spider-Man winced beneath his mask. "Are you sure that's a good idea, Doc? You know who he is, don't you?"
"Yes, Spider-Man, but I would do the same for you, or for anybody who had lost their memory. He's a human being, and he deserves to know who and what he is."
Spider-Man shook his head. "It's your call, Doc, but I still think you're making a big mistake. I'm the one he's going to come after when he remembers he's the Goblin. He's going to know that it was me who put him here. I'm not sure I really like the idea of that."
"We're going to help him remember that he's Norman Osborn, Spider-Man, not the Green Goblin. He'll be no more of a threat to you than John or I," Dr Kafka said reassuringly. Spider-Man thought that she probably had perfected such a tone on drooling serial killers, and was thus not overly enamored of its soothing overtures.
"Excuse me if I don't sound too hopeful, Doc, but I've heard that line before. It never works out." Doctor Kafka smiled, her lips forming an attractive Cupid's-bow shape, and she adjusted her small oval glasses.
"There's always a first time, Spider-Man. Let's hope that I can make it happen."
Spider-Man made a face. "I really hope you're right, Doc. I really do."