Chapter Five: Cheap Shot
Mary Jane stepped out of her parents' house and stopped, her body tensed and her eyes closed. Too bad she couldn't close her ears. Behind her, her father's voice rose up to a crescendo, only to be topped by her mother's high-pitched yell. The argument was trivial, as always. Anyone would think they were looking for reasons to tear at each other. Coming back here, even overnight, made her stomach roll with helplessness and frustration.
Sighing, she looked over the Parkers' backyard, neat and quiet in the Sunday afternoon sun. Right then, more than anything in the world, she longed for Peter to step out the door, be there with her, hold her. It was ironic that all the years he had lived here she hadn't cared, barely noticing her shy neighbor, and now he was gone she wished desperately that she had the chance to be near him again.
She had learned from him how to step out of yourself for a moment, to take the time to see another person. It was nothing more than that, and it was everything. He hadn't made all her problems go away, she wasn't looking for him to make everything right, but he had made her real because he cared enough to understand her. She had taken the lesson to heart, recognizing the power that came from just listening. Whether or not he ever loved her, she was becoming a stronger person because of him.
Resting her hands on the fence between the two houses, MJ kicked at the gravel. In the background, her dad was screaming something obscene, but she ignored it and thought about Peter. Nothing about him made sense lately. She wasn't a genius but she was smart enough to know something was going on. The day of Norman Osborn's funeral, when she had kissed him and he had turned her away, she had come up with a crazy idea of what it could be, but she didn't have the courage to approach him with it. Not yet.
The front door slammed violently and she jumped, glancing at the back door. She knew what happened now. Her dad would stay at the bar until late, getting tanked, while her mom did her drinking at home. Tomorrow they'd wake up with hangovers, too sick to do more than snip viciously at each other while her mom got ready for work and her dad called in sick. Yeah, MJ thought tiredly, you're ready to start listening to people, sure, but you don't have the guts to go in there and talk to Mom. You don't want to hear it. Over the fence, the house next door was serene. That was where MJ wanted to belong, in a world where people cared about each other and cared for each other. Peter's world. Hesitating, she looked at his back door. Even if Peter wasn't there, she could go over and talk to Aunt May, couldn't she? The white-haired lady had always made her welcome and treated her like family.
Mary Jane smiled, sticking the toes of her tennis shoes into the links and hauling herself over the fence. Peter had shut the door on her, but she wasn't giving up yet. Maybe Aunt May knew what was up with him, and if not, maybe they could talk him over together.
Running lightly to the Parkers' back door, MJ rapped on the window. There was no answer, but through the glass MJ could see a pot bubbling on the stove. She knocked again, a little louder. White foam was sliding over the sides of the pot, hitting the burner. It definitely needed to be turned down. Leaning to one side, MJ peered in and knocked again, this time loudly. That pot was really making a mess. Uncertainly, MJ tried the handle. The door was unlocked, so she stepped gingerly in—as if walking softly meant she wasn't trespassing—and grabbed the pot's handle, setting it to one side and turning the stove off. Turning, she opened her mouth to call Aunt May. It stayed open as she saw the tumbled white hair and an arm lying across the entrance to the dining room. The scene was so wrong, she had to stand and wait for her mind to catch up with her eyes. When it did, she ran over to see. Then she grabbed the phone and starting dialing nine-one-one.
Spider-Man was moving carefully and quietly through a claustrophobic metal duct, much faster than he could have say, a year ago. In fact, a year ago he wouldn't have crawled through a duct that size if you had paid him. Now, the confining space felt entirely comfortable. This might have been a side-effect of the genetic change which had altered his life, or it might have been because he knew he could now break the duct wide open with a shrug of his shoulders. He preferred to think it was the second option. The idea that his attitudes might be different because his genes had picked up some extra information was...unpleasant, somehow.
Breaking and entering, on the other hand, was a guilty pleasure. Spider-Man had landed on the roof of Collins Towers, home of Wilson Fisk's executive offices, bypassing all the security at the entrance aimed at people who didn't travel forty stories up. He had considered going through the roof-access door, but as he reached for the handle the feeling he had dubbed 'spider-sense' kicked in. Startled, he pulled his hand back, and it faded out. Looking closely at the door, he discovered that it was not only locked but alarmed. Skittering over the side of the building, he put his hand out to break a window and felt the same warning sweep over him. Cool, he thought. Built-in burglary equipment. He'd wasted ten minutes playing with this new application of his gifts.
He really didn't want to indulge in criminal tendencies, but slipping in and out of places unnoticed was fun. Like a video game made large as life. Locating a metal duct that had no security around it, he had wiggled his way in and headed down. If Fisk was involved in the recent deaths, searching his offices could save lives. If he wasn't...well, Spider-Man wasn't hurting anything.
Except the vent cover he broke when he spotted an empty office and moved out onto the ceiling. Apologetically, he set the broken grill inside the duct and headed toward the open door. Peaking into the hallway he saw no one, but stayed on the ceiling just to be on the safe side. People rarely looked up.
It took awhile to find a directory, but he finally located one near a set of elevators. He had to take an elevator back up two stories, to the penthouse offices where Fisk kept his desk. The elevator was fast and noiseless, and when the doors opened, he was already half-way out before he saw two men in business suits coming straight down the hall toward him. Moving fast, he flattened himself into an upper corner as the men stepped inside. Teeth gritted, Spider-Man stopped moving and tried to stop breathing. What kind of executive comes to the office on Sunday? he thought grumpily. The two men didn't speak as the elevator descended all the way to the lobby level, appearing bored. Neither of them glanced around or up before the car came to a stop and the doors swished open.
As they left, he sagged a little with relief. Cautiously, he reached a red-gloved hand down to press the top button and stayed, flustered, upside down until the elevator had risen all forty stories again and stopped on the right floor. Craning his head out the top of the elevator, he checked both ways and then crawled onto the ceiling on tip-toes and tip-fingers.
Fisk's office was a wide, luxurious suite occupying the entire west side of the building. The double doors at the entrance were open, and Spider-Man realized immediately that the rooms were occupied. Silently, moving now with the excitement of a hunter, Spider-Man found a vantage point in a shadowy corner of the reception room with a sight-line through to the conference room. Six men were seated around a table. Four were nondescript men wearing suits and serious expressions, looking like a casting director's idea of board members. The other two men were something else entirely. One was a huge man dressed in white and diamonds, a heavy diamond-topped cane laid on the table in front of him. Sitting across from him at the foot of the table was a thin man covered head to foot in a rustling gold cape. Under his mask, Spidey felt his eyebrows rise. If illegal activities were going on here, those two were dressed for it.
"—which makes the Consensus Project ready for operation in two weeks," the huge man at the head of the table said in a booming voice. "At this point, all obstacles have been taken care of except one. With the elimination of political opposition, we have a clear path forward. Our sponsors were very impressed with your demonstration, sir," he nodded at the man in gold, "but one of our select band seems to have an objection."
"I thought your sponsors were all hand picked," the man replied in a soft, sneering voice that made the hair on the back of Spider-Man's neck stand up. "This wasn't supposed to happen."
"True. I accept responsibility for the mistake," Fisk answered calmly. "I had initially approached Mr. Osborn senior. When he passed on so unexpectedly, he left his affairs to his son..." Fisk shrugged. "The boy had the paperwork and expressed interest. Unfortunately, I misjudged his character. I trust the problem can be taken care of?"
"I've done more than I bargained for already," hissed the other. "The sponsors were unnecessary from the beginning—"
"The sponsors have paid your, shall we say, more than reasonable fees. An additional fee will, of course, be forthcoming."
Nothing but darkness was visible beneath the metallic hood, but the man seemed to reconsider. Finally, he said, "Done."
"Good. I have been completely satisfied with our partnership so far," Fisk said. "Your skills are very impressive." He smiled and it was not a pleasant expression. "Although, I wonder why you feel compelled to...approach your work indirectly. Traps, coming at your, ah, business targets from behind..."
"Fair play is...for the playground," the soft voice was laughing, now. "A cheap shot usually hits the mark. You have been—annoyed, perhaps?—that I have insisted on my anonymity. Take that, then, as my name. Cheap Shot."
Fisk laughed, a deep rumble. "Good enough. I prefer having a label, even if I'm not allowed a name and a face. Live up to your chosen identity—no one needs to see us coming."
"You need have no concerns," Cheap Shot said. "My Consensus Project will start operation, on time and without any....snags." He stood in a swirl of gold. "You have lived up to your end of the bargain, and I assure you, you will have no cause to regret your investment." With a short bow, he walked from the room, past the unlit reception area and the empty secretary's desk. Spider-Man watched him go and began to move quietly after him. In the conference room, the meeting was still in progress.
One of the nondescript men broke his silence with a snort. "You do realize, don't you, that he's planning on turning against you when he gets a chance?" he said.
Fisk leaned back and waved a hand carelessly. "Naturally. I am not an idiot. He will find it difficult." Fingering the huge diamond in his cane, his eyes narrowed dangerously. "In this city, there are many people interested in...profitable enterprise. But all of it, all of it, comes back to me in the end. I control the networks, I hire the enforcers, I collect the profits. In this city," he repeated, "I am the Kingpin."
A/N: Thank you for all the reviews! It makes my day. Skip the rest of this note if A/N's bug you.
Midgewood58: Thank you for the criticism, I make corrections and I appreciate it.:)
Tinderblast: Hooray, another Lamont fan!! The only place I've found him is Amazing Spider-Man #51-54. If anyone can tell me what other issues he's in—I can't afford to buy them all.
To the reviewers who like Lamont: No, he's not an OC (see above) although I made up his family and introduced him to the movieverse. Thanks for letting me know he works here.
Spidersrockmyworld: Chapters just kind of end where they end, for me, but I'll try to update often. (Love your name.)
And to everyone: Thanks again.