The muscular woman called Delilah lifted her weights with both hands, though she could just as easily have used one. Call it force of habit. She lazily pressed the giant blocks of steel and concrete, feeling her muscles knotting under her smooth porcelain skin, a couple of rivulets of sweat snaking their way down her neck through her raven-dark hair and long black ponytail. It wasn't perspiration from effort so much as the length of time she'd spent in the gym – it was hot despite the ventilation shafts that surrounded it. She gritted her teeth and heaved the weights back onto their specially reinforced platform, and toweled herself off, turning her attention to the malleable training dummy in the corner of the room. It was filled with impact-responsive gel that would glow a certain color according to the force of the attack leveled against it. Red indicated a level of lethal force, green simply a nerve hit. She snapped off a few kicks at hip level, hitting the dummy in the groin and thigh area, the gel turning instantly from its natural, clear color to a neon-bright yellow. She fired off a couple of straight punches, the dummy's head lolling and twisting back on itself, and drove a knee towards its stomach area, almost tearing it in half. She resisted the temptation to let herself rip at it without restraint, and instead simply rattled its neck and torso with bruising straight rights and left crosses that left the gel shining red. She felt a little smile cross her lips as she did so. Life is good, she thought contentedly.
Wilson Fisk looked at the box in his office. It had just been delivered to him personally by one of his aides, and it was something he'd been waiting for with a great deal of anticipation. The mere sight of the box was enough to make him break into a wide smile – something that he wasn't used to doing, except after a particularly successful take-over of one of his pathetic little competitors' businesses. He stripped the packing tape off the outside of the box, flipping open the lid which had been stamped with an Osborn Industries logo in miniature and reaching in amongst the polystyrene foam that had helped to cushion the contents of the box. Drawing his hand out after rummaging around inside the box for a moment, Fisk brought with it a small glass vial, the contents of which were gently glowing with a faint purple light. He smiled again, like a shark closing in on a seal pup, and then pressed the intercom button on his desk. "Delilah, would you come to my office, please." He thought she knew him well enough by now to realize that that had not been a request, and, sure enough, she soon appeared at the entrance to his office, her hair slick with moisture and her long ponytail draped over her shoulder.
"You wanted to see me?" she asked, putting her left hand on her hip and adjusting the towel she had draped over her shoulder.
"Indeed so," Fisk replied. "Please, sit down." He gestured at the leather-covered chair opposite him with one huge hand. He set the vial down on the surface of the desk for a moment and steepled his fingers together. "Now, then. I would like you to do something for me, Delilah. The contents of this vial are very important. They will help me end this war." He leaned forwards in his chair and handed the vial and its contents to Delilah. "Deliver them and you will be rewarded handsomely, I assure you…" He leaned back into a sitting position again and interlocked his hands. "Now, then…"
Mad Jack watched, unseen by either Delilah or the Kingpin. His soulless black eye-sockets took in everything that transpired between the two of them, and the small camera and tape recorder in his hands collected physical evidence of what the Kingpin was planning. He chuckled to himself almost inaudibly. "Naughty, naughty…" he crowed. "That's not the way to earn friends, lad… that's not the way at all." His soft laughter echoed as the wind danced around him like a lover, almost gentle in its caresses.
Peter Parker blinked and tried to stand perfectly still. It was more difficult than he thought it would be, despite his Spider-powers giving him the ability to balance much better than a normal man. He supposed it was due to the fact that he was half-naked, draped in something that MJ would have considered revealing. "Oh, sweetest?" he said, trying to sound as sincere as he could. "How long do I have to stand here?" MJ didn't look up from her sketchpad, her pencil darting furiously over the crisp white paper.
"As long as you have to, Peter," she said, her eyes still focused on the drawing in front of her. "You did agree to this, remember?" Peter arched an eyebrow.
"Yeah, but I didn't think I'd have to stand here in a tiny sheet with nothing but the drafts for company," he protested. "I think even my goosebumps have goosebumps!"
MJ finally looked up from her pad. "I know, Peter, but you're the only guy I know who has a nice enough set of muscles for this look to work," she said, her voice honeyed, as if to appease him. "Besides," she added, "I like looking at you without much on."
Peter grinned. "Flatterer. The feeling's mutual, I assure you." MJ stuck her tongue out at him, and scrubbed out a mistake with the eraser on the other end of her pencil.
"Keep up with that mouth, mister, and that won't be happening for a long time. Now hold still, you're losing the pose."
"Yes, mistress," Peter said, grinning. "Your wish is my command."
"That's more like it."
"Thought ye might like to see these," Mad Jack said, producing the small photographs he had obtained. "They're pretty juicy, if you know what to look for." The man in the purple hood who called himself the Rose snatched them with a gloved hand and flipped through them, a look of shock coming into his eyes as he realized just who the Kingpin was talking to. He realized that he ought not to be – Delilah was a mercenary; she'd work for whoever paid her the highest amount of money – but still, it did unnerve him to see his former right-hand woman working for another. He found it… unsettling.
"Got ye a tape-recording of the whole thing, too," Mad Jack said in his lilting Irish brogue as he dangled the small tape recorder from his gloved fingers. "Aren't ye proud of me?"
The Rose said nothing at that, but simply snatched the recorder from Jack's fingers, listening to what Fisk had planned for a moment or two before making his mind up about what course of action to take. "Thank you, Jack," he said, his teeth on edge. "Follow Delilah. See if you can gather more information on her mission. Don't step in unless you have to – I don't want to see her harmed, if at all possible." Jack cocked his head.
"Harborin' a soft spot for the old gal still, are ye?" he said through his odd mask, a trace of amusement flitting through his voice. "From the looks of her, I don't blame ye." He grinned – as much as a pumpkin could grin, at any rate – and silently floated away, leaving the Rose to ponder his next move.
Staten Island was cold at this time in the evening. Delilah hardly noticed it, however – part of the advantages she had gained with her super-strength had been the ability to withstand far greater extremes of hot and cold than she had previously. Her skin had barely prickled and her hands and feet still felt as warm as they had when she had been lifting weights. It was child's' play to evade the security measures that Fortunato had put in place here in his sanctum sanctorum – even the fat, lazy guards that wandered here and there periodically were easy to avoid; and when they weren't (which was a rare occurrence), all she needed to do was displace a vertebra here, an eye-socket there, and her path was once again clear. It was almost painfully straightforward.
Which in her hearts of hearts, Delilah found profoundly disturbing. It was either a case of Fortunato being so stupid as to only protect himself with the bare minimum of strength, or of him allowing her to get this far, with his real strengths still hidden.
Nevertheless, she managed to make her way to the walls of the Don's home, and flattened herself against it, creeping slowly towards the best entrance she could find – a window on the second floor. It flapped and creaked in the wind, and sounded none-too-happy to be open – which meant that it was probably deserted. Nobody sane would put up with that kind of noise without at least trying to close it. Delilah decided to take advantage of what had been presented as a golden opportunity, and fired the grapnel at her wrist with the minimum of noise. It hissed from the launcher and hooked itself over something solid inside the building, and she was able to haul herself hand over hand into the building. Once she was in, she retracted it and crept closer to her target. According to his incredibly precise routine, Fortunato would be watching the nightly news at this point, along with his son, Giacomo – otherwise known as Jimmy 6 – a mobster just as mean and flinty as his old man. Delilah decided she didn't want to tangle with the man directly, and so headed down the stairs quietly, heading towards the kitchens. It was here, she knew, that the old man's dinner would be prepared, along with his single glass of fine malt whiskey. She had to get to it quickly, or all her effort would be for nothing.
She reached the kitchens and saw a young Hispanic maid putting the finishing touches to the elaborate, spicy chicken dish that lay on the plate before her. She stepped away from it for a few moments, heading towards the oven behind her in order to retrieve something else. Delilah crept noiselessly towards the silver tray and, cautiously, when the young maid's attention was distracted, tipped the contents of the vial she had carrying in a pocket at her hip into the crystal decanter that held the expensive whiskey Fortunato liked to indulge himself with. It fizzed for a second or two, but that was enough time for Delilah to retreat silently and leave the kitchen as if she had never been there in the first place.
Mad Jack watched. She was good, this Delilah, he'd give her that at least. He supposed he could go to Fortunato with what he'd just learned, and make a tidy profit.
But that ain't what I'm doin' this for, is it?
Fortunato and Jimmy 6 poured over the maps of New York, seeing where their territory's lines lay this particular week. Fortunato grunted when he saw that a profitable crack operation in the South Bronx had been crushed by the NYPD. Jimmy 6 saw what his father was looking at and said "Yeah, that was a doozy, Pop. But don't worry, I got plans for that dump –"
Fortunato cut him off with a wave of a liver-spotted hand. "Don't insult my intelligence, Giacomo. I can do that myself, despite what some of your friends might think." He snorted, and reached for the cut-glass decanter. "I don't need youngsters to tell me how to run a family…"
Delilah shrugged her shoulders. "Fortunato's worm food," she said shortly. "I put that stuff you gave me in his whiskey. The old coot's as good as dead." She tossed the empty vial onto the Kingpin's desk as if to underline her point. The Kingpin smiled thinly.
"Good. Good. You've done well, Delilah. Here –" and he pushed a briefcase filled with crisp notes towards her "– you may take this as a bonus for your services to me this day. I'm certain they will do me a great deal of good in the near future." He observed with pleasure the greedy light in Delilah's eyes as she took the briefcase and briefly thumbed through one of the stacks of bills.
"All in a day's work," she said, with a nasty grin.
"She killed Fortunato," Jack told the Rose, who raised an eyebrow and tapped his masked chin with a fingertip.
"Indeed? I didn't think Kingpin would dare be so bold as to do anything that might alienate him from the other families, but apparently I was wrong." He shook his head. "This certainly presents me with some interesting circumstances, doesn't it?" He scratched at his throat where the mask touched it, and cocked his eyebrows, one of his cheeks lifting beneath the leather. "Never let it be said that I'm not adaptable, though. We shall have to see what kind of opportunities this new set of circumstances affords us, my pumpkin-headed friend." He threw Mad Jack a thick wad of used bills. "In the meantime, spend that on whatever you wish." Jack caught it casually with one gloved hand and cackled softly.
"Thank ye, sir," he said, his eye sockets blazing with supernatural flame. The Rose threw him another pile of bills, saying "And consider this a bonus for keeping that wall-crawling irritant out of my hair for the moment. Make sure he doesn't interfere with the meetings tomorrow." Mad Jack cawed sadistically, and nodded.
"My pleasure," he said icily.
He floated away from the Rose's company, holding the thick bundle of bills on one hand, and settled in a small alcove a few hundred feet from the makeshift office – far enough so that he was sure he could not be overheard by the man who was nominally his employer. He reached into a pouch at his waist and drew out a battered photograph that was frayed and worn at the edges, dog-eared flaps folding over at the corners and threatening to break off through sheer wear and tear. J. Jonah Jameson and his wife Marla stared cheerily from the picture, unaware of the demon currently looking down on them. Jack O' Lantern frowned slightly, and the picture was suddenly bisected by flame, the Jamesons' faces bubbling and popping as the photograph disintegrated.
I'll be back soon, Jameson, he thought. Sooner than you think…