"Now, gentlemen," the Rose said calmly, his fingers interlaced inside their black leather gloves, "I believe we have something to discuss, do we not? This crime war is expensive and wastes valuable resources into the bargain. I've seen your forces slaughter each other on a daily basis, and I'm not impressed." He snorted. "This is how the mighty Kingpin and the Maggia settle their disputes? By spraying each other with lead until the other side can't throw any more men at you? Forgive me for saying so, but the defense of the Alamo was more well-planned than that. Now, then, this is my solution: I would like my former territories back." He saw the two big men begin to rail at that suggestion and held up his gloved hands. "Yes, yes, I know that's probably an unpalatable suggestion for both of you at this point in time, but let me elaborate – I would suggest that, with a third player in place, the situation will be stabilized. No more scrabbling for this or that. No more arguing over whose lands are whose. No more having to listen to small fry like Hammerhead in order to infiltrate certain areas of the city. With my good self back in control of the lands the Black Tarantula stole from me, I would suggest that your problems will be significantly reduced."
The Kingpin shook his head. "You're being naïve, boy," he said, his voice simmering with barely-veiled venom. "Do you seriously think that if we returned your territory to you, the war would end, just like that? If that's the case, then I can see why the Black Tarantula was able to strip you of your territory in the first place. Only a fool would be stupid enough to think that the Kingpin would allow another small-time mob boss into New York. I'd say it was crowded enough already."
Jimmy Six mustered the first signs of voice that he had been able to manage since his father's body had been taken back to his family home by a contingent of his soldiers. "He's right, Rose. Your way'd just make things worse. What'd we get in return for givin' you what you're askin' for?"
"Enough," the Rose said brusquely. "Will you listen, or not?"
The Kingpin sighed, and leant on his jeweled cane a little, mulling the Rose's words over in his mind. "The alternative, I suppose, is killing you, too. I think I've just about exhausted my quota of dead enemies today." He fired off a satisfied smile in Jimmy Six's direction, and watched with satisfaction as the younger man glared at him icily.
Delilah frowned. This was not what she had expected from the Rose. There was something on his mind, she could tell from his body language – lacking a face to read emotions from, she had learned to read his movements like expressions, and the way he moved, the way he clenched his hands, suggested that the Rose was not revealing everything that was going on inside his head. But then, that did not surprise her much. Something was definitely rotten in the state of Denmark. Time, she supposed, would reveal just what it was…
Spider-Man comforted himself by telling himself that what he was seeing wasn't real, that it was all an illusion. It didn't help much, as his stomach was trying to crawl out of his throat beneath his mask and his inner ears were telling him to get down on his knees and stay there until the danger had passed. Peter fought against them valiantly, keeping his eyes on Mad Jack's disembodied head as it floated around him mockingly. "There's a fine line between genius and madness, Spider-Man, and I think you're about to cross it, don't ye think?" it crowed. "Maybe ye'll be wantin' to take that mask off to get a little air, hmm?" The head cackled with laughter and swirled around him a little more, upsetting his sense of up and down.
"This. Is. Not. Real," he said firmly, trying to muster some confidence from his fractured brain. "I'm on top of the Bugle building. I was facing east. I've moved one-eighty degrees from there since then, so…" He raised his arm and double-tapped the button on his palm that activated his webshooters, shooting a thick strand of webbing across to the adjacent building, the sticky end of the webbing impacting on the side of the water tower and pulling taut as Peter tugged experimentally on it. Taking a running leap despite his nausea, Peter swung up and around, letting go of the webbing and coming to a halt on the rooftop of the other building. He saw, suddenly, that the Jack O'Lantern had not moved from his spot on the Bugle rooftop – the Bugle had, miraculously, reappeared in the time it had taken for Peter to swing across to the other building. Peter was quite relieved to see its familiar shape again, and then blinked behind his eyepieces at what Mad Jack was doing. Or rather, at what he was not doing. The weird villain was standing atop his globular flyer, shrunk down to his normal size, his arms folded and his stature relaxed.
"Well, come on!" Spidey said, trying to work up some sort of cutting pun or play-on-words that he could use. "Aren't you going to come at me? You know, bad guy attacks hero, hero plays along, gets punched a few times, punches back, bad guy goes down – that kind of stuff?" Mad Jack tilted his head.
"Oh, please. I'm not here t'fight ye, lad. Illusion's the game here. It's up to ye to figure out why." He reached down to a pouch at his side, brought out a gnarled, lumpy candlestick, and ignited it with a touch of flame from his finger. "Heads up, boyo." He pointed the candle at Spidey and a long tongue of flame shot out with a whoosh, the sight causing Spidey to leap backwards out of sheer instinct. This, apparently, was what Mad Jack had been counting on, since Peter's leap landed him right in the center of a circle of flame that terminated at about chest height. "I'd not be tryin' to walk through that if I were you, boyo," Mad Jack said, cackling with laughter. "Not unless you want to burnt to a crisp."
Roderick Kingsley stared through the reinforced glass at the hunched over form of Norman Osborn, the other man's sunken eyes staring out from a ravaged face at the window of the cell. The moonlight cast a puddle of light onto the floor through the latticed framework of the window, and Osborn watched it flicker a couple of times, seemingly oblivious to Kingsley's presence. Kingsley chuckled as he watched Osborn's silent vigil, realizing that this was just the opportunity he would need to regain Kingsley International from right under Osborn Industries' collective noses – and then immediately cursed himself as Norman's head snapped around at the sound, his eyes narrowing into their former merciless expression.
"Who's there?" he asked, his voice a little unsure (and hence not really a good companion to his face). Kingsley shrugged. The play's the thing, he thought slyly, wherein to catch the conscience of the king…
"Hello, Norman. You remember me, don't you?"
"No." Norman's voice was sad, depressed – and also, Kingsley could have sworn, a little angry at his present situation.
"Are you absolutely sure? We have a history, you and I."
Norman heaved himself off his cot and moved towards the door, to peer through the small window. Kingsley saw, for the first time, the hideous tangled scarring that lay across the other man's face, and turned away for a second or two. Then turning back towards him, he said, "We have a history. Doesn't my voice mean anything to you?"
Norman shook his head, his one intact eyebrow lifting slightly. "I told you, whoever you are, I don't remember anything."
Kingsley smiled – a cobra's smile, before it strikes its prey. "Focus on my voice. Then maybe you'll remember. You haven't forgotten me – the memories are still there, after all. A teacher of mine once said that all you need to remember things are chains of links. Link one thing to another, and not even a goblin could take your memories away from you –"
"Kingsley," Osborn said slowly. "That's your name, isn't it?" His face twisted with rage, the thick, webbed scarring bulging out from his face. "You're lucky I don't remember anything other than that – leave now, and I won't call the guards." His eyes narrowed again. "And you're lucky I can't get through this door, either."
Kingsley smiled whimsically. "My thoughts exactly." As he left the cell behind, he decided that Daniel would be perhaps be the best port of call. There would be little way that Daniel would be able to turn him away, after all…
"The old boundaries, gentlemen: I suggest we return to them," the Rose said, steepling his fingers. "I'm willing to respect your borders, as it were, if you'll respect mine."
The Kingpin's eyes turned to slits. "No. If you think I'm just going to hand over lands that I acquired so recently, then I'm afraid you have a very misconceived idea of how this kind of business is done, my masked friend." He put a huge hand to his chin. "Don't make me have to end this in violence. I do find it so distasteful."
Jimmy Six snorted. "You can do what ya like, Fisk." He turned to the masked man and continued "I'm willin' ta make a deal, Rose." He returned his gaze back to the Kingpin and said evenly "I'll give ya back the territory Dad took from ya if ya give some of the new land ya just…acquired… to the Fortunato family." Without waiting for the Kingpin's answer, he looked over at the Rose and said "And don't you worry – you'll get back what the Tarantula took from ya. Now what kind of a plan does that sound like to everybody?"
The Kingpin stroked his chin thoughtfully. It was certainly a good plan, and one that might even end the war, at least temporarily, but what could he gain from it, personally? Something to ponder, at the very least…
Spider-Man could feel the heat from the flames getting more and more intense, the air becoming hot in his lungs and making him sweat underneath his mask. He coughed as some soot managed to worm its way through the cloth covering his mouth, and shouted as loudly as he could "What do you want with me?"
Mad Jack chuckled – an eerie, weird sound coming from that pumpkin on top of his shoulders. "With you? Absolutely feck all, lad. This is just me gettin' some exercise and stretchin' me legs. Besides which, I always liked playin' with you, boyo – you're a real piece of work. Always make me laugh." The weird pumpkin mask twisted slightly, in what Spidey supposed was meant to be a grin. "Keep me on me toes, too. Ought to really have fun with Jameson when I'm done with ye." He cackled mercilessly. Spider-Man felt a rising anger in his gut – he remembered all too well what had happened to Jonah the last time that Jack had got those gloved hands on him. It hadn't been pretty, and Jonah had only just survived. Even now, there were still mental if not physical scars evident on the grizzled old newshound. In an instant, Peter knew that he couldn't let Jonah get hurt that way again. Ignoring the heat from the flames, he leapt at Jack, his hands outstretched. Jack simply moved aside on his flyer, and tapped a stud at his collar twice quickly. "Rose? Yer boyo Spider-Man is givin' me a few little problems here at the Daily Bugle buildin'. I'd like some back-up, if it's not too much trouble."
The Rose tilted his head suddenly, listening to the microbead radio link in his ear go off with a little high-pitched keening sound. He heard Jack's irritated request for assistance and looked straight at Delilah. "My dear Delilah, an associate of mine is having trouble with Spider-Man near the Daily Bugle. I'd appreciate it if you'd go and help him."
Delilah looked at him with contempt. "You don't pay my bills any more, Rose. Why should I do what you tell me?" She glanced over at the Kingpin in order to get him to back her up, but he nodded in agreement with the Rose instead.
"He's right, Delilah – unfortunate as that may be. It would be helpful to me if you would help whoever is presently occupied with Spider-Man dispose of that meddlesome nuisance." He waved her away. She gave the Rose a sour look and then disappeared from the meeting grounds, secretly thanking whoever had given her the chance to escape the meeting with her sanity intact.
Spider-Man swung away from the Jack O'Lantern's flame blasts as best he could, feeling the heat from them singe his back. He used his momentum to come to rest on the water tower he'd used to escape Jack earlier, and fashioned a web ball about the size of a baseball. He hoped that if he could get it across Jack's face even for a few moments, he'd be able either to get the hell out of dodge or somehow get some kind of advantage over this weird villain – he'd had too many bad experiences in his relatively few encounters with this creepy successor to Jason Macendale to miss any kind of opportunity he could get.
Before he could throw it, Mad Jack pointed a finger at him and Spidey felt the world spin. Dropping the web ball, he managed to jerk one arm out to the side just enough to be able to shoot a webline off, and swing himself out of the way, moving himself onto a stretch of closed road that was deserted, and would mean fewer civilian casualties if Jack decided to get nasty. Groggily, Spidey stood, shaking his head. That's twice you've tried that, Parker, he thought. Better not try for three. Barely had he finished thinking that, however, when he felt the ground tremble from the impact of a large block of concrete near his feet. Looking round to see where it had come from, he saw Delilah standing about fifty feet away from him, her muscular arms crossed across her chest. "Boo," she said in her husky voice, giving him her best dose of bedroom eyes. Spidey looked to the sky under his mask. I can't believe my luck sometimes…
The Rose crossed his arms. "Well, Fisk?" he asked, a little impatiently. "What say you?"
The Kingpin sighed. "All right, Rose. You have a deal." He nodded to Jimmy Six. "His proposals are an integral part of my agreeing to do this, however – I don't expect to have to do solely as you dictate. Let me assure you, the Kingpin bows to no man."
"So I've noticed…" the Rose muttered under his breath. "Now, then, I see no further need to have our operatives tied up fighting that ridiculous pest Spider-Man. Shall I pass the word along to them so that we can go our separate ways?" The Kingpin waved vague, annoyed assent, and the Rose's mask shifted in such a way that indicated he was smiling quite broadly. "Jack? Leave Spider-Man be for now. Our business here is concluded."
Spidey evaded a few wild punches from Delilah, the super-strong woman's fists whistling through the air like piledrivers into concrete. She cooed, "Don't want to let me get my hands on you, huh?" as she did so, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "Men can be such teases sometimes." She was about to launch herself into another attack when the Jack O'Lantern called her off suddenly, his voice turned into an angry bark. Spidey watched, confused, as Mad Jack tipped his head to one side, his blank eyes and mouth curving into an annoyed frown. "Well, boyo, looks like you and I are goin' to have to finish this little soiree up some other time," he said, a tinge of irritation sounding in his voice. "You come with me." He gestured that Delilah should join him atop his glider, and the two of them began to rise away from where Spider-Man was standing. Peter thought that if he put enough power behind a good solid jump, he'd be able to reach them, but just as he was gathering strength in his calves, Jack dropped a small cylindrical object that broke in half in mid-air and released a blinding flash of light. Peter cried out in pain and staggered, rubbing at his eyes. It took a few moments for the effect of the flashbang grenade to wear off, and as his vision came back to him, Peter knew that he'd be alone. He muttered something about how this sort of thing never happened to Captain America, and then began the long, arduous trek home. Mary Jane's going to laugh her cute buns off about this one…
Mad Jack floated down through the skylight of the Rose's base. He had dropped Delilah off in the centre of the city – Delilah had told him that they were close enough for her to get back under her own steam – obviously she had been under the mistaken impression that he had never seen the Kingpin's lair before. Jack had laughed for a good long time after that. He floated down into the belly of the lair, and saw his employer below, his leather mask set to one side. That alone intrigued Jack a good deal, so he set his glider down a few paces away from the Rose, and stepped towards him, saying "Time t'pay up, lad. Jack does his work, Jack gets paid, no?"
The Rose turned, and Jack stopped in his tracks – which in itself was saying something. After all, it takes a lot to put a master of illusion off his guard. Jack found himself congratulating this new Rose. The man under the mask was the same man who had acted like a lackey for the Rose, who had approached him a few months earlier arranging a mercenary contract for Mad Jack's services.
The Rose was Richard Fisk.
"Yes, of course," Fisk said, tossing a thick bundle of money towards the bizarrely-costumed man. "Here. I think that ought to cover your expenses and your bonus, don't you?"
"I think so. Not that it's any o' me business, mind ye, but why didn't ye just talk to me as Richard Fisk from the start?"
Fisk laughed – a cruel, sharp laugh. "You're a fine one to talk, 'Jack'. Maybe when you choose to take off that ridiculous pumpkin, we can talk about giving away secrets." He scratched his chin. "But let me assure you, masks and subterfuge are the best way to deal with my father. This is just the way things are. Why do you think Father attracts the attention of so many do-gooders in masks and tights? No, the Rose I am, and the Rose I will have to remain, until I have unseated my father from his lofty perch for good." He laughed again, and Jack felt a shudder run up his spine for the first time in a long, long time.
"I'll be going, then," he said, in a slightly subdued voice. "Unless ye need me for anything else?"
Fisk waved him away. "No. No, get out of here. Do whatever you like. I'll call you when I need you again."
The room to which Jack removed himself was a way across town. Old movie posters clung to the walls, their edges peeling and yellowed. Damp ate at the floors and ceilings. Here and there a cockroach scuttled across the floor, chittering to itself loudly. Jack squashed one under his boot, enjoying the sound of its shell cracking and the sensation of its insides spilling out.
"Ah… home sweet home," he said, sarcasm thick in his voice. From his belt he pulled out a small picture of J. Jonah Jameson and set it beside a picture of a middle-aged man with greying temples and horn-rimmed glasses.
Satisfied with the arrangement, Jack sent a small licking tongue of flame towards the picture of Jameson, and watched it flicker into bright, short-lived flame. "The time's coming, Dad," Jack said to the other picture. "Jameson's goin' to pay for what he did to us."
THE END