Chapter Three: News
His eyes were a strange white-blue, making him look blind, but he scanned the paper he held with obvious comprehension. The headline made him chuckle—just like that fool, Jameson to publish a ranting editorial instead of encouraging real investigative reporting. While all the time, the real criminals went unnoticed, exactly as planned.
Setting the paper aside, the thin assassin got to his feet and threw a long gold cloak around his shoulders. As he pulled the hood over his face, the cloth seemed to come alive, clinging in swirling folds to his body. He walked quickly out of the shabby apartment, closing the door behind him and moving quickly down the alleyway, unseen by the few people out and about this early in the morning.
It would not do to miss this appointment. It was vital that he oversee the next phase of the Consensus Project, to make sure the mobster known as Kingpin who was fronting his operation did not get his oversized hands on any of the precious devices before the were ready to be planted at the schools. His invention would bring peace and strength to America. He was the only one to see that no one but the people, we the people, had the power to right all that had gone wrong with this great country. Wilson Fisk saw nothing but the dollar signs. Ah well, he'd deal with that blind fool soon enough.
Meanwhile, Jameson and the police could chase each other's tails, wasting time on the web-slinger. The assassin chuckled again.
SPIDER-MAN WANTED FOR SCHOOL MASSACRE
by Ben Urich
Witnesses place Spider-Man at P.S. 134 last night, shortly before a bomb placed in a teacher's desk drawer exploded, causing thousands of dollars of damage to the elementary school. Police were already at the scene, investigating a murderous rampage, which claimed the lives of three teachers and ten parents. The NYPD has not yet found physical evidence linking the wall-crawler to the deaths, as the explosion destroyed most of the crime scene, but survivors claim that super-human speed and unknown weapons were used in the brutal massacre. The Daily Bugle calls on the people of New York to petition the police for quick apprehension of a man who, if not the perpetrator of the crime, has failed to come forward with information vital to the investigation and may be... (continued on page A4)
Dr. Curt Connors set the paper aside in disgust. The tabloids got worse every day, and he couldn't believe that the public was that gullible. Didn't anyone remember how Spider-Man had rescued those kids on the 59th Street Bridge? If it weren't for the crossword page, he'd have stopped buying the Daily Bugle years ago.
A knock sounded at the door, and Connors yelled, "Come in!" Peter Parker stepped into the tiny office, swinging his backpack down to rest on the floor. As usual, the brilliant student looked tired and distracted. Connors knew that Parker's uncle and guardian had died earlier that year, and he suspected that his prize student was still dealing with the tragedy. The university professor knew, from personal experience, that grief could do strange things to you, and could still be there months after you thought you had moved on. Although he had to fire Parker from his lab job for repeatedly failing to show up on time—or at all—he was sympathetic to his situation, and wanted to help if he could. Connors hadn't found met a freshman with so much potential in years, and he wasn't about to stand aside and let him miss the opportunities waiting for him.
"Parker, I'm glad you could make it," Dr. Connors swiveled his chair to look sternly at Parker, his one hand resting on the desk. His other arm had been lost in the war when he had been an army surgeon. The sleeve of his white shirt was neatly folded and pinned on the left side. "I wish to discuss your report on the historical applications of atomic technology," he said. Parker looked nervous, and Connors could tell he was wondering if there had been a problem with the paper. "It was, in a word, exceptional," he continued. The boy blinked in surprise and looked pleased.
Connors started drawing abstract patterns with one finger on his desk. He wasn't good at approaching personal subjects with his students..."Um, Parker, I know that you've had a recent...loss, in your life, and that consequently—well, I know that paying for a college education can be difficult without the financial support you might have been expecting."
He paused. "There is a scholarship, a considerable scholarship, which would cover not only tuition but includes a large stipend for textbooks, room and board. It is offered only to the nation's outstanding science students, and the competition is fierce. Normally, I would not encourage a freshman to try for it, but given the kind of work I know you are capable of producing, and given your needs, I think you should submit an application. You must include a copy of a research paper—I think the atomic paper will be sufficient—and an essay on your ambitions and qualifications." He picked up a cream-colored, heavy sheet of paper and offered it to the surprised student.
Parker took the application form and looked at it with a slight frown. "This, would be—I don't know, Dr. Connors, absolutely fantastic. If I really stand a chance..."
"Whether you do or not, you'll never know unless you try," Dr. Connors replied briskly. "You also need three academic recommendations—I will write one and approach your other professors. All you have to do is bring this application and your essay back to me before next Friday." Dr. Connors tapped the desk sharply, making Parker look up with a start. "Friday, Parker. The scholarship committee will not accept late entries, or cut you any slack, no matter what excuses you make. Do you understand?"
Nodding seriously, Parker looked at him with his jaw firm and determination showing in his eyes. "Yes, sir."
"Great," Connors thought that succeeding with this might help ease the boy out of his depression, above and beyond helping his financial situation. "Now, get lost, I've got work to do," he smiled.
Parker smiled back, tucking the application into his backpack and heading out the door. Connors grinned. Giving a good student a chance at something important was a great part of being a teacher.
Spider-Man released one webline, kicking and arching his back as he swung over the last street to land on the balcony of his apartment. The apartment was a horrible, dingy little room holding nothing much but a bed and a sink, but it was cheap and it had the most important thing: a window he could sneak in and out of as Spider-Man. Sliding his backpack off his shoulders, Peter stepped inside and yanked his mask off his sweaty face.
He had intended to go straight home and start on his essay, but there had been a gang fight on Second Avenue. Flying bullets had endangered the neighborhood residents and clueless pedestrians who had wandered into the war zone. The wall-crawler ended the fight quickly, webbing the shooters indiscriminately against the walls of buildings, while the alarmed gangsters stopped shooting at each other and started shooting at him. Dodging bullets while leaping from wall to wall firing webs might have been an extraordinary experience for some, but it had become routine for Spider-Man—so routine that he hadn't been paying as much attention as he should have and moved a shade too slowly out of the way. A bullet had grazed his side, leaving a burning streak across his ribs. It wasn't deep, but wow it stung.
As Peter dropped his mask on the bed the phone rang shrilly. Scooping it up, Peter spared a thought for all the people he didn't want to talk to right now. "Hello?"
"Hi, Peter." Mary Jane. Yep, that would be number one on the list. "Oh, hi."
"I wanted to make sure you were alright," she said. "Since you never got back to the movie last night. It was pretty good, by the way. I've been calling all morning."
Peter looked down at his bleeding side, fingering the rip in his costume. "Right, I got...tied up, I should have called you, but it was late and there was class this morning, and..." MJ cut across his babble.
"Look, Pete, I didn't call to give you a hard time. I really wanted to make sure you're OK, and not just because of last night."
Moving over to the sink, Peter tucked the phone under his chin so he could run water over a washrag. "What do you mean?" Great, now his gloves were all wet.
"It's...you've been there for me, Peter, when I needed you. It's why I—anyway, I get the feeling that you need someone to be there for you, now."
He rubbed the washcloth over the wound slowly, wiping off the blood. It had almost stopped bleeding.
"Pete?" MJ broke the silence. "OK, maybe I'm imagining things, I didn't mean to..." She sounded upset now.
"You're not imagining things, MJ," Peter said awkwardly. "But...it's not something I can talk about." He dropped the rag in the sink and leaned his head against the mirror, feeling the cool glass against his forehead. "But, you know something, MJ? Just talking to you, just having you call and not give me a hard time? You've helped already," he said. His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears.
"Oh," Mary Jane sounded unsure. "Then, I'm glad. You know...if there's anything else, I'm here. You...I guess you're the best friend I've ever had, Pete. I don't mean that...no pressure, you know? But I'm here. I'll always be here."
"Thank you," Peter whispered.
"You're welcome, tiger. Talk to you later, OK?" After she hung up, Peter stood there for a few minutes, staring at his reflection: a college kid in a spandex suit, with a bloody gash on one side and a phone in his hand. What was wrong with him, that he could have won the love of a girl like MJ and turned it down? He was willing to bet that there wasn't another girl in New York who would have called him after being stood up in public—to see if he was OK.
Slowly, Peter walked over and hung up the receiver. As he set it down, it rang again.
"Hello?"
"Peter, my friend, where ya been?" Harry Osborn. Great. Number two on the list of people he didn't want to talk to right now.
Unfortunately, Real Life has got me by the throat right now, so updates may be slow in coming. But if you hit that button I might slack off at work some more...I definitely write for feedback!