Chapter Thirteen: Victory

Spider-Man perched on top of a loudspeaker pole above the red-lined grid covering the lawn. Cops and gangsters, frozen in mid-advance, looked like they were playing a strange adult version of 'Red Light, Green Light'. He had managed to pull two of the cops activating the trip lines out of danger, but four blue-uniformed men he couldn't reach in time twitched and convulsed for what felt like an eternity to Spider-Man before lying motionless. Their gruesome example outlined the situation for everyone and the people became panic-paralyzed statues as he climbed to his position above the lethal playing field to figure out his next move.

It was the eye of the storm; for an eerie moment everything was quiet and still. Fisk, in the center of a red square, stood with his heavy cane gripped in one hand, breathing hard. Suddenly, a bright flash of white light near his feet made him jump fearfully away, almost to a trip line. Another flash followed. Suddenly the lawn was filled with searing flames darting up randomly, forcing people all around to jump and dance. One of Fisk's gunmen, the little guy with the sharp face, jumped too far and hit the edge of his square.

As the thug started to scream and jerk, Spider-Man sprang from the pole into the center of a square and did a handspring into the next, flipping end over end in and out of the squares to reach the man as fast as possible. Grabbing the back of his collar, he jumped high and wide—about two stories up and fifteen feet to one side—with the man dangling from one fist. Even as he dumped the man unceremoniously in the safe zone, popping flames forced another person into the trip lines. A uniformed woman was slapping madly at her burning pants. The terrible sound of adults screaming in pain and fear was coming from every side. On the marble steps, Fisk was bizarrely waltzing from side to side of his square, unexpectedly agile for his size. Out of the corner of his eye, Spider-Man could see cops taping off the area, forcing the press and the growing crowd of thrill-seekers back. The helicopter swooped and buzzed overhead.

Gunmen and police were winding their way out of the maze toward the edges, hopping awkwardly over trip lines and stumbling over the burning grass. One of the trees had gone up like a giant torch, flames crackling through its dry brown twigs, and the air was filled with the scent of burning wood and roasting flesh. Spider-Man bounced crazily over and around the area, trying to reach as many as he could and pull them to safety. He wished futilely that someone had thought to fill this park with a few tall buildings or even a concrete overpass or two—anything to give him a better framework to maneuver around than the spindly trees and wobbly poles. I am SO not a back-to-nature kind of guy, he thought. His amusement was short-lived, as a man far across the flat lawn from him was caught in a spurt of flame.

I'm on the defensive here, and I'm losing fast. Spidey swung back up a tree, clinging by the tips of his fingers and looking more like a monkey than a spider. Gotta take the fight to Cheap Shot, if I can find him. He jumped back into the center of the lawn to yank another cop clear of the flames. Tumbling back into the giant game board, he caught a glimpse of red light flickering on the top of the Rotunda dome.

Squinting through the smoke, Spider-Man thought he could make out a black box, flashing like a strobe light in an arc across the lawn. That could be the source of the laser-lines—at least, taking it out couldn't hurt. I don't think it's supposed to be up there. As quick as thought, Spider-Man moved forward, through and over the shifting obstacle course, his ease and grace making it appear as simple as playing hopscotch. In seconds, he was crouched on the roof of the Rotunda porch, then scrambling up over the curve of the dome. He ducked automatically as his spider-sense went off the scale. Any further up and he would cross into the red grid being projected over the lawn below, its squares tight and tiny this close to their source.

Below on the Rotunda steps, Fisk was still swerving and jumping away from spurting jets of flame, his heavy face covered in sweat and his lips drawn back in a snarl. As the fat mob boss backpedaled to avoid a jet of fire, he stumbled and fell ludicrously on his rear, his feet flying up in front of him. The sudden fall saved his life. A bullet whined past his head, missing him by a hair. Jerking away from it, Fisk rolled heavily into a trip line.

The sound of the shot was lost in the commotion, overpowered by the roar of flame, the screams, and the blaring sirens. Oblivious to the newest attack, Spider-Man flattened himself along the curve of the roof. Gripping the concrete with his feet and resting his weight on his knees, he lay flat under the laser light as he slid his hand along and up. Taking careful aim at the miniature projector, he closed his fingers over his palm. The sticky ball of webbing hit the bull's-eye and the trip lines across the field winked out of existence.

Fisk barely had time to register an intense burst of pain before the lethal grid was deactivated. Panting harshly, he rolled over clumsily and used his cane to lever himself to his feet. Another shot buzzed past his ear, and he hit the ground again with a shout of fury.

On the dome, Spider-Man twisted and confirmed visually that the grid was gone, although the lawn was still flashing fire like the stage at a rock concert. With a wide grin under his mask, he bounded up to the cocooned box and crushed its metal and glass like paper. Back-flipping high in the air, he twisted to land back on the porch roof in his unique crouch, one hand resting lightly between his feet as he surveyed the battlefield below.

Beneath the trees on the far edge of the lawn, he saw the glint of sunlight reflecting from a rifle barrel just as he became aware of shots cracking into the Rotunda facade beneath him. He could distinguish the rifle barrel, but the grey metal simply disappeared into a shimmer like a patch of heat haze behind a tree. Blinking, he thought the smoke had affected his vision—but then remembered Cheap Shot's invisibility the night he had attacked Harry Osborn. It's that cloak! I'd almost forgotten it, but it's some kind of camoflauge...wait, is that how he disappeared back at the WXXP building? Mentally he kicked himself, then leaped into action.

From the porch he soared to a loudspeaker pole, then to a patch of ground next to a limping cop who looked dazed and frightened. The odd, wavering, man-shaped outline moved quickly from the back of the lawn, unnoticed by the crowd. Cheap Shot seemed to be looking for a better angle to shoot at Fisk, who had laid his bulk as flat as possible against the marble steps and covered his head with his hands. Spider-Man moved to intercept the assassin before he could succeed in eliminating his target.

He landed on the brown grass and felt spider-sense tingling at the base of his skull. Springing away, he neatly avoided a spurt of white-hot flame. Unfortunately, the shell-shocked cop near him was restricted to human reflexes and fell screaming to the ground as the back of his coat ignited. Fluidly changing direction, the web-slinger slipped an arm around the man's waist and jumped with him to the police barrier, where he rolled him onto the ground and under the yellow tape. The fast roll put out most of the fire, and ambulance personnel swarmed toward him with blankets to put out the rest. Looking back over the park, Spidey saw people everywhere being helped by paramedics and policemen, who were picking their way over the lawn like a minefield. Too many victims lay motionless on the grass.

Pushing the body count from his mind, Spider-Man scanned the area for Cheap Shot. He had been there, on the other side of the lawn, heading for Fisk. Yes...barely visible but much closer to the Rotunda than he expected, Cheap Shot was hiding in his shimmering cloak. The solid rifle barrel extending from its protection was lowered squarely at Fisk's head. One squeeze of the trigger and the Kingpin of New York would be dead. Spider-Man realized that his last rescue had put him on the far side of the lawn—too far to reach them in time.

Without hesitation, Spider-Man sprayed webbing as fast and far as he could as he ran, hoping against hope that Cheap Shot was in range. Come on, come on...Yes! A splatter of spider silk caught the barrel and knocked it sideways, forcing the shot wide. The shining silk also coated a patch of the swirling cloth, hardening into a patch of sparkling grey apparently floating in mid-air. Spider-Man, running forward, aimed now at the visible web and hit his target dead on, knocking Cheap Shot flat and covering his back and shoulders with a wide sticky web. Got him!

Cheap Shot fell to the ground, and Fisk was up and moving. Closer to the assassin by far than the vigilante, Fisk reached Cheap Shot first and raised his cane over his head, his face distorted with rage.

"Hey!" Spider-Man shouted, and shot a web at the gangster. It was hit by a spouting flame and fell short of its target. Fisk paid no attention, bringing the cane down with bone-shattering force on top of the webbed mass of golden cloak. The heavy stick hit nothing but cloth and the solid ground, the jarring rebound knocking Fisk backward. Cheap Shot, breathless and red-faced, his grey hair streaked with soot, wiggled his legs out from under the cocoon of web and cloak and dragged himself to his feet.

Snarling, Fisk stepped forward, hefted the cane over his shoulder like Babe Ruth and took aim at the old man's head. Spider-Man, finally reaching the warring villains, closed his fingers around the stick and pulled it from Fisk's grasp as he swung.

"You interfering insect—" Fisk's basso voice gave him a true predator's growl. He spun and threw a right hook which the vigilante ducked easily, following it up instantly with a powerful jab to his gut. Spider-Man blinked in surprise; the fat man was in astonishingly good shape. He'd almost felt that. Before Fisk could strike again, Spider-Man tossed the cane to one side and connected his fist to the fat man's chin.

Leaving Fisk unconscious on the grass, Spider-Man looked around for Cheap Shot. The elderly man had tottered up the stairs to the sheltering shadows of the porch as fast as he could move. Launching himself into the air, Spider-Man clung to the side of a column and aimed one wrist at the criminal. Without pausing, Cheap Shot hit a button on a thick band strapped to his arm as he pushed his way through the double doors of the Rotunda and disappeared inside. Spider-Man was thrown from his perch by a spectacular blast wave.

Rolling into a ball, he kept his head tucked in until he hit the ground. He splayed his hands and feet out to the ground, clinging to the earth to brake his momentum. Air rang and thundered around him as multiple explosions took out column after column, and the dome shook. A long black crack spread down the curved surface and the porch roof collapsed, folding in on itself and sliding down the marble steps.

Spider-Man shook the dust from his mask, his ears ringing, and peered up at what remained of the building. The front of the Rotunda was sagging drunkenly around a ragged cavity that had once been the porch. The columns had been reduced to heaps of debris, spilling out over the steps and mixed in with chunks of what had once been the roof. He stood quietly for a moment, shaking his head, amazed at the scope of the destruction.

"You know, buddy, that was a historical monument," a rough voice drawled sarcastically behind him. Spider-Man shot straight up, whirling mid-air to face Detective Lamont. The detective stood his ground, only leaning back slightly as Spider-Man landed on his feet a few inches from Lamont's face.

"Give me a heart attack, why don't you," the wall-crawler griped, embarrassed.

"Thought you were psychic," Lamont said smugly. Spider-Man rolled his eyes, forgetting that no one could see it.

The detective went on, "I was over at the WXXP building, what's left of it anyway, when I got the call to get over here because all hell was breaking loose."

Spider-Man ran a hand over his head—sending plaster dust flying—and took a moment to look around. Everyone in range had hit the ground when the blast went off, and people were helping each other to their feet and checking for injuries. The front of Lamont's usually immaculate shirt was smeared with dirt and soot. The broad lawn seemed oddly still and quiet, until he realized that the jets of flame had stopped and that he was half-deaf from the explosion.

Along one side of the lawn, a row of body bags had been laid out and were white with dust.

"What a mess..."

Lamont didn't hear his whisper. He was glaring angrily at the ruined porch.

"Was Cheap Shot under that?"

"No, I don't think so. He got inside before he set it off."

"Nice going, web-head."

"Hey, it's not like I—"

"So, you and your super-villain buddies accomplished exactly zero here, except to bring a lot of good men down."

Spider-Man gaped at Lamont. "Wait a second. I'm the good guy here, remember? I don't—"

"Break the law? Start fights big enough to destroy buildings? Put everyone around you in danger?" They were both talking loudly over their ringing ears to start with, and by the time Lamont finished he was shouting.

The hero bowed his head. Like MJ. Like those kids in the ferry car, like Uncle Ben. A sour tang filled his mouth and he felt weak, exhausted by more than the eventful day. The scientist in him, detached and logical, knew that Lamont's bitter accusation came from the detective's own grief and anger over the cops he knew who had died today, and from his sense of guilt over civilians the police hadn't managed to protect either—but a deeper part of him felt the justice of it. Once more he had failed to live up to his power and his responsibility. With all that he could do, lives had still been lost. Spider-Man raised his head.

"I'm going after Cheap Shot," he said clearly. "If I bring him in, can you hold on to him?"

Lamont took a deep breath. He set his hands on his hips, pushing his coat back, and frowned at the ground. "Yeah. One way or another."

Spider-Man nodded curtly and stepped toward the half-demolished building.

"Hey."

He paused, looking inquiringly back at Lamont.

"You're a pain, you know that?"

"Gee, thanks for letting me know."

"Anytime." Lamont wasn't smiling.

Harry Osborn was glued to the television set, almost forgetting to breathe as he watched live footage from City Hall Park and the Colonial Rotunda. All the confusion and noise couldn't hide one inescapable fact: Spider-Man was there. The helicopter camera caught flashes of a bright red mask and blue tights in contortionist tangles, moving so fast that even slow-motion replays could only hint at the action.

He's there. Ripping other people's lives apart the way he ripped mine apart. Harry took a swallow of his beer. The rage he felt washed over him like the tide, swamping his thoughts, draining away only to leave him exhausted, empty. He stole my father from me.

Oh yeah? When was your father ever there for you, even before he died? whispered a soft, traitorous voice in his head. Harry lurched to his feet to grab another can of beer. Shut up. Things were fine. We were fine...we had to be. I never had a chance to prove to him, prove to him that I could be the son he always wanted. He popped the tab and drank deeply. Peter, yeah, Peter was the kind of son he wanted. Harry rubbed his eyes with one hand. He wasn't going to be jealous of Peter, not anymore.

Peter isn't going to avenge you, Dad. I am. Harry nodded his head emphatically and drunkenly. He caught sight of Bernard, standing in the doorway. Something in his stiff expression made Harry wonder blearily if he'd been speaking out loud.

"Bernard, my man!" Harry waved at him.

"Is there anything more tonight, sir?" Bernard said, his icy tone clearly conveying his disapproval.

"Hell no. Goodnight, goodnight," Harry snarled, and Bernard bowed shortly before moving off. Everyone looking at me like that. Even Peter looks at me like that. His attention caught again by the newscast, Harry heard the reporter speaking.

"As the area is secured, emergency medical personnel are being called in from all over the city. Mayor Dunn is unharmed, repeat, unharmed, despite earlier reports. However, businessman and philanthropist Wilson Fisk, who hosted today's presentation, is being treated for minor injuries. Spider-Man has fled the scene." The cheery reporter smiled as the shot widened to include the smoking park. "Here is Detective Lamont, Head of NYC's new Paranormal Division, to explain the situation." She held her microphone out to a thin man who looked vaguely familiar to Harry.

Fled the scene. Dammit. Harry brooded. Wonder if Pete's seeing this. Wonder if he knows what the bug is up to now. Arching over the back of the couch, Harry snagged the telephone receiver, which slid from his fingers to the floor. Was it worth getting up for it? He shut his eyes and listened to the television. Pete knows Spider-Man tried to kill me.

With a sigh, Harry pushed himself off the cushions, suddenly determined to get Peter on the phone and hear him say it, hear him say, "Yes, Harry, you're right. You're not being paranoid or unreasonable. How could I have missed it before—the man is a menace." Peter would be impressed, admiring. "He killed your father and only you had the guts to stop him." The fantasy conversation made him smile. Yes, he needed to talk to Peter now.

Harry hit the speed dial, unaware that his sanity was making an attempt to reach out and call for help. It rang and rang, but Peter didn't answer the phone at his apartment. Oh right. Aunt May, that's where he'll be. He hit another speed dial number.

Inside, the circular main room of the Rotunda was mostly intact. Sunlight filtered through the crack in the dome and poured through the shattered front, sparkling off of the bronze statues lining the walls and lighting up the dust in the air. Spider-Man glanced around uncertainly, wondering where Cheap Shot had headed after diving inside. The explosion had been immediate, so he had to have gotten under cover fast.

There, in the wall to the right of the entrance and almost buried in rubble from the porch, was a door. Spidey scrambled onto the piled masonry and peered at the bent metal. It must have been a fire door. Now it was jarred free from its frame and he could see a dark space behind, with stairs leading downward. Basement access?

It only took a few moments of shoveling with his hands to clear a path and he pulled the door open without effort—although the screech of tortured metal was echoed by an uneasy rumble from the ceiling—and he slid through the buckled doorframe into the silent blackness. If this was a horror movie, this would be where I yell at the TV 'Don't do it!'. Spidey chuckled nervously. I mean, you know there's a murderer lurking down there, setting traps for you. He took a deep breath to force the twinge of fear back and cautiously crept down the side wall, avoiding the steps.

Leaving behind the light from the doorway, the wall-crawler moved into the thick gloom. Every sense alert, he heard only his own breath and the soft sound of his fingers and toes touching and gripping. He lifted his right hand and stretched it to the wall in front of him, but there was only air underneath his fingers. The unexpected empty space left him off-balance and he rocked backward. Like the way it feels when you miss a step, he thought. More cautiously, he explored the edges of the opening with his fingers and realized it must be a doorway at the bottom of the stairway.

So, did he go through here or out into the basement somewhere? Spider-Man considered it for a moment. On the left he sensed an open space stretching out from the stairs. That was under the Rotunda. The door next to him opened to the right, and there was a faint, cold breeze coming from it. It must lead away from the Rotunda. Making up his mind, Spider-Man gripped the top edge of the doorframe and pulled himself through it onto the ceiling. Brushing the wall to each side with his hands, he decided he was in a narrow hall and made his way along it upside-down.

Before long, he reached a turn and another doorway—and finally, a glimmer of light. He crawled faster, the light revealing dampish brick walls around him and a concrete floor. He'd heard urban legends about New York's subterranean city, sewers and subway lines and long-forgotten tunnels. The light was coming from wire-covered bulbs at regular intervals, so apparently he was in a maintained and remembered part. Unless he'd gotten completely turned around, he was headed south-east toward the river.

A cross-tunnel bisected the one he was in, and he paused to look both ways, baffled. Was Cheap Shot even in this maze? Just then he heard a cough, distant but clear. He turned left, skittering rapidly along the bricks, dodging the light fixtures. Bouncing around a turn, he saw a bent figure shuffling down the tunnel ahead of him. Cheap Shot.

He sensed no immediate danger from the old man, but he wasn't about to repeat his mistakes. No overconfidence this time. Spider-Man spun a web blocking the tunnel ahead of the shambling man and just to be on the safe side, he turned and blocked the tunnel behind him as well. He kept his eyes on Cheap Shot, approaching cautiously, and wondering why his spider-sense remained silent.

Cheap Shot brought himself up short when he saw the gleaming strands stretch from wall to wall, the seemingly fragile threads cutting off his escape. He straightened, coughing again, and faced his enemy with his head up and his hands by his side. The web-slinger raised his hand to cocoon the villain, still expecting a tricky move.

"Wait," Cheap Shot called harshly. He couldn't go on right away, bent double and coughing too hard to speak. Spider-Man realized that Cheap Shot's suit was scorched, his hair full of dust, his broken hand bleeding around its cast. It hadn't been an easy day for the septuagenarian.

"You've won," he finally choked out. "There's nothing more I can do. But may I ask you, before you take advantage of your victory, to grant me one favor?"

The vigilante's first thought was, You've got to be kidding me. Then he wavered. Cheap Shot stood quietly in front of him, old, tired, and broken. It didn't feel like much of a triumph. Against his better judgment, he hesitated and then lowered his hand, muscles tensed to move if Cheap Shot so much as twitched.

"What kind of favor?"

"Nothing more than to indulge me by listening to what I have to say. I doubt I will live long enough," he coughed again, "to stand trial. Let this, then, be my chance to speak in my own defense."

Spider-Man wasn't sure he wanted to hear this. But there was part of him that wanted to know, to understand how any sane human being could do the terrible things that Cheap Shot had done and feel himself justified.

"All right," he heard himself say helplessly. "Go ahead."

A/N: Just a quick note to thank everyone who has sent me a review, you guys encourage me when I'm feeling like I can't write.

J: Yes!

Betty Brant: Wow, I'm blushing. And your story is great ("Excuses, Excuses" go read for wonderful PP/MJ romance).

And everyone else, again, thank you!