xXx

Peter walked in and hefted his camera bag up to the counter. He blinked, looking over at Mary Jane. She sat leaning forward on the couch, watching the news.

"What's up?" he asked, walking around to join her.

"Dude, check this out," she said. "Another gang bites the dust! This is just like the Kallara thing yesterday. Two in a row? What kind of army is after the New York underground?" she wondered.

Peter watched the news. A trim, fashionable woman covered her ear with one hand and spoke directly to the camera, and what looked like flaming docks smoked and flickered in the background.

"Tarantelli family found dead tonight. The police were drawn by reports of explosions, and they arrived to find the cargo ship Maggie May, out of Thailand, sinking. Authorities suspect that more victims and a cargo of illegal drugs may be aboard. While there are no suspects at this time,"

Peter sighed, shrugged. "Oh well," he said, heading to the kitchen.

"Hey, do you think it could be another one of those invisible monster things?" Mary Jane asked.

"No," Peter muttered, shaking his head. "Style's all wrong. Probably just some hired out-of-town muscle brought in to shake things up. Not my problem."

"Dude," she said, staring at the television. "Three of the ringleaders were found pinned to a telephone pole, like ten feet off the ground! The Kallara ringleaders were stuck to the wall with knives, weren't they?"

"Bayonets," Peter clarified. "From what I hear."

She regarded him. "So you're really serious about not checking this out?" she said.

"MJ, it's mobsters blowing each other up," Peter sighed. He looked at her, then shook his head. "The spider ghost just developed a new super power. Invisibility." He checked in the fridge for leftovers.

Mary Jane paused, then rose and approached him in the kitchen. He glanced at her, and stuck a bowl of chili in the microwave.

"Peter. If this happens again. The gangland killings, with the leaders strung up. I want you to check it out, okay?"

"Why?" he asked tightly. "What do you want me to do about it? Have you forgotten what happened last year around this time? I got put in jail. I came this close," he said, gesturing, "to getting exposed as Peter Parker, Spider Ghost. I'm done tweaking the law on a lark. No more. And I'm not crazy about giving gangsters a reason to target us, either. What are you thinking? How can you possibly for a second believe it's not stupid for me to involve myself?"

Her stare turned chilly. "I'm a woman, Peter Parker, in case you forgot," she said. "And I don't have to explain everything to you. I want you to go check it out, if this happens again. Yes or no, bub."

"Bub?" Peter echoed. "Definitely too much time around Illyana."

"Will you do it or not?" Mary Jane demanded, temper frayed.

"Fine. I'll go have a look around if another crime family shuffles off this mortal coil and gets their leaders nailed to something. Satisfied?"

"Yeah, I am," she snapped.

"Good. I'm going to bed," he said, and he left the kitchen, headed back down the hall to the bedroom.

The microwave beeped. Mary Jane took Peter's bowl of chili out.

"And thanks for making me a snack," she muttered under her breath. She leaned back against the counter. "I'd explain it to you, Peter," she sighed. "If only I understood it myself."

xXx

The door slammed open, and a big man staggered down the steps. Two thugs leveled weapons at him, then relaxed as they recognized Castle.

"Got 'em," Castle grunted, and he sagged down into a chair as blood flowed down his arm. His shirt was torn, his pants tattered, and he was smeared in blood and grease. He leaned his bruised head back in the chair. "I need some god damn stitches," he managed. "No bullets stuck in me, though."

"That's good," Beck said, watching him. "Well done, the light pole was a nice touch." A doctor stepped forward, and started snipping through the tatters of Castle's shirt, cutting the cloth off with scissors. "You've exceeded my expectations, and lived up to those of our employer."

"I'll be healed up in a week or so," Castle murmured, exhausted. "Is there a rush before we tackle the next one?"

"No, nothing that won't fit into your timetable," Beck shrugged. "Do you want something for the pain?"

"No," Castle retorted, his eyes snapping open. "Gotta stay sharp." The doctor pressed his shoulder, and Castle leaned forward. The doctor produced a modified medical staple gun. First he sprayed the injuries, and they bubbled and frothed as the chemicals cleaned them out. Castle winced.

"Just check for broken bones, get me some braces and some stitches, and I'll head out to my own safehouse," Castle grunted.

"Very well," Beck agreed. "I'm glad you made it back."

"Thanks," Castle replied. "I am too."

Beck straightened. "Well, be careful. I'll be in touch."

"Right," Castle nodded. "You do that." And his eyes were somehow feral as he watched Beck leave. As the door closed behind Beck, Castle smiled to himself. "Go talk to your boss."

xXx

Beck was escorted into the room lit only by candles, heavy with the unpleasant smell of damp flesh and old food.

"You are late," rumbled Fisk's vast voice.

"I thought I might be followed," Beck said. "Just a feeling. So I took my time and was careful."

"Very well," Fisk muttered. "Good work with Castle on the Kallara and Tarantelli families. Next are the Chan."

"The Chan?" Beck clarified, startled. "Who are you sending with him to tackle them?"

"He goes alone," Fisk growled. "Still you underestimate the power of one driven, haunted man with Castle's instincts and skills. To attack is more simple than to defend. Alone and fully equipped, especially with our intelligence, I have every confidence he can accomplish the task."

"How is he going to do it? I mean, the Chan have contacts all over New York."

"True," Fisk nodded. "But next week they will have a gathering to discuss what's going on with the other crime families, to decide how best to protect themselves."

"So that's why you went after the other families first," Beck nodded. "To encourage the Chan to bunch up."

"Castle is perfect," Fisk muttered. "He specializes in massive damage, misdirection, and stealth. He is a privateer, a pirate with a mandate. He would be doing this anyway if we weren't equipping him. A man like that has his own ways of getting the equipment and information he needs. I am simply aiding him."

"And it doesn't hurt that the Chan snapped up the drug trade that was once part of your mighty criminal empire," Beck observed.

"Now, why do you have to go and say something like that?" Ebony asked, startling Beck. Ebony lounged in a dark doorway, and his flat eyes took in every detail of Beck's current state.

Fisk raised one massive, meaty hand. "It's alright, Ebony. True, I am punishing the Chan for dominating a trade that was once all mine. Just as the Kallara and Tarantelli families helped finish off my empire. I am punishing those who descended like sharks after that disaster in Latveria, where I crawled home blinded and crippled. My lieutenants deserted me, entire gangs defected at once, and my will became irrelevant in the turbulent underworld of New York." He paused.

"If Castle is successful," Fisk murmured, "then there is only one more target before he is free to go, his contract fulfilled."

"Free to go," Beck clarified. "Not disappeared, or vanished, or scapegoated, or killed. But free to go. You plan to let him walk away."

"Yes," Fisk nodded, his head a vague pale shape in the dimness of the corner. "It's the least I can do."

Beck shivered slightly, finding the air close and musty. "So who is the last target?"

Fisk smiled inscrutably.

Thursday, September 23 2004

Peter adjusted his tie and hefted his portfolio and camera bag. He glanced up and down the street, then he let his eyes drift half closed. Five till ten. Elgin wasn't late yet.

Then the BMW pulled around the corner and growled to a halt. Peter grinned, the trunk popped open on the car. Peter slung his portfolio and camera bag into the immaculate trunk, closed it, then dropped down into the passenger seat.

"Nervous?" Elgin asked, looking trim and dapper in his suit. He wore small round reflective glasses that accentuated the lean strength of his face, and his clothes were well coordinated. His cropped black hair looked stylishly windblown, and his smile was all brilliance.

"Of course I'm nervous," Peter retorted. "We are getting ready to go see the investor that might just make or break this whole project. Aren't you nervous?"
"No, not really," Elgin shrugged. "I have eight likely investors. This is the first one on the list."

Peter looked at him shrewdly. "You are such a liar. You are twitchy as hell." He grinned, Elgin chuckled.

"Okay, you got me," he said.

"This is strange," Peter said, leaning back as Elgin drove. "I keep thinking of you as 'Beck.' It's going to take me a while to get it straight that you're Elgin now."

Elgin nodded. "Quentin Beck is a part of the past, and Mysterio is in a trunk in my closet, safely packed away as insurance against a time of need."

"The spider ghost retired, too," Peter said, watching the city roll by.

"Really," Elgin murmured, surprised. "I would not have asked you to retire that persona, but… I won't lie to you. I'm glad you did. That will make this job a lot easier for both of us."

"Believe me, I know," Peter nodded. He paused. "What's the battle plan when we get to the investor? Where are we going? What's going on?" He grinned ruefully.

"We're going to set up for our presentation. The investor, Warren Worthington the Third, is going to meet us in his private suite in the Hellfire Club." Elgin tugged a special pass from his pocket.

"The—the Hellfire Club?" Peter said, astonished. "His private suite?"

"Did I mention he would be an ideal candidate to fund our effort?" Elgin said mildly. "Worthington has a deeply diversified portfolio, and we'll be targeting the media arm of his conglomerate. The pitch is to help him see how funding our magazine will be cheaper and more effective than some targeted advertising of his properties, if we feature them on a monthly basis. We can create a reputation and identity for the magazine as a reliable guide to fashion; tell rich people what's popular. Because they're dying to know." Elgin smiled.

"Wow," Peter said, awed.

"With your portfolio, I'm convinced that we can make this happen," Elgin nodded. "So be of good cheer, my friend. We're on our way."

"This is really going to work out," Peter mused to himself. Elgin just smiled.

xXx

"Yeah, Grace? Sorry, I'm sick today. Can't come in," Mary Jane said dully into the phone. "Yeah, sorry. Okay. Tomorrow, sure. Yeah okay bye." She hung up, and let out a deep sigh. She scrubbed at her weary eyes with her fists, then she headed to the bedroom.

Opening the closet, she stood on a box and reached up to the very top. She pulled down a thin shirt-box, and she opened it. Let her fingers touch the black mesh wadded up inside, looking wrinkled and matte without being stretched over flesh.

She sighed deeply, remembering years ago…

Peter cleared his throat. "Mary Jane," he said, "my powers are gone."

"What?" she said, swerving a bit as her head whipped around to look at him.

"Eyes on the road," he said, his voice tense. "I woke up this morning a normal average guy."

A moment of silence stretched out forever. She blinked.

"That's good, right?" she said. "Now nobody has a reason to come after you and screw up your life. You don't have anything to hide. Life further back from the edge, huh?" There was wonder in her voice.

His eyes filled with unshed tears as he looked at her. He opened his mouth, then closed it. "I can't believe," he said softly, "you know me so little." He bowed his head. "My power caused me trouble, yes. But I always got more than I lost, if you know what I mean. And I was wrong. I'm not a normal average guy. The normal average guy out there," he said, fighting against the bitterness that crept into his voice, "doesn't know what he's missing. Has never done what I have done. I'm not sure I can ever be whole. In me," he said, touching his chest, "there's a scar where my incredible abilities once were."

"Then, maybe," she said, "you need to get your powers back." She looked over at him and tried a smile.

Mary Jane let out a deep sigh. "Yeah," she murmured. "I guess people change." She struggled to accept that idea. Then shrugged.

Quickly, Mary Jane stuffed the box and its mesh back up in its concealed nook. She left the bedroom, headed for the phone, dialed a number.

"Gwen? It's MJ. Look, we have an emergency mope situation, we need 10 cc's of shopping, stat! Pick me up? Groovy." She smiled slightly to herself, and headed back to the bedroom to make herself presentable.

xXx

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the handsome young billionaire said as he strolled into the plush meeting room. "You have ten minutes." He sat down at the table. He was lithe and quick, his eyes sharp, his burnished gold hair swept back from his classical features.

"Thank you, Mr. Worthington," Elgin nodded. "I'm here to interest you personally in an interior design magazine. Let's forget about the posturing. This is what it will do for you. We feature your properties in at least half the magazine every month. My associate, Peter Parker, is a gifted photographer who can make any space look intriguing. Basically, your investment is seed money and additional operating expenses. And we provide you with unparalleled advertising. The rest of the issue is dedicated to material that will get people interested enough to purchase the magazine to see your products and services inside."

"Any space intriguing," Worthington echoed, a smile toying with his lips. "Let's see the portfolio, Parker." Peter handed it to him.

Worthington paged through the photographs; one from above a subway train, another level with the floor capturing shoes and shadows, a stunning aerial shot straight down the side of a skyscraper, a nest in an air conditioning unit… Worthington flicked through the collection.

"You just closed a deal on some properties on the West Side," Elgin continued. "We could make that one of our first projects. We plan to have contests with redecorating similar spaces, and we could do that in some of the standardized housing you control. There are a lot of ways our interests dovetail here."

Worthington snapped the portfolio shut and regarded Peter. "Interesting," he said. "He does have a gift for photography. And if something were to happen to him? What of my investment then?"

"I have eight more photographers lined up," Elgin shrugged.

Worthington considered him for a moment, then he nodded. "Very well. I'll have my Omnicorp people be in touch with you." He smiled briefly, then stood and left without further pleasantry.

"Did—did we just—?" Peter said.

"We did," Elgin replied, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Eight more, you say?" Peter said as he cocked an eyebrow.

Elgin shrugged, a catty smile on his lips. "I lied to you about investors, seemed only fair to lie to him about photographers. Let's go get a drink."

"Amen to that," Peter grinned. "I think drinks are on you."

"Fair enough," Elgin chuckled. "To Interiosity!"

"I'll drink to that," Peter agreed. "I'll drink to that."