xXx

Peter slowly circled the mannequin, his spinerettes flexed and modulating his webbing to a fine spray as he hosed down the plastic.

"Letting a man get killed is almost as bad as killing him," Peter mused. "But Ebony? This is nuts. I can't just stand aside and let it happen. But I'm not a killer, either. There's always another way." He shook his head.

"It's even more messed up than that. It's like something chose Fawkes to come back, and bring with him all the revenge of Ebony's other victims. Who am I to countermand that sort of freaky supernatural karma punishment?" He took a deep breath as he sprayed over the dummy's face, a lighter density over the eyes.

"Specific to general to specific. Okay, what the hell am I going to do tonight?" He nodded to himself. "Do I stop Fawkes? Do I help him take on Ebony? What am I missing here?" He sighed. "Okay, so the general. Who sent Fawkes? Can Fawkes even be stopped, or am I fooling myself?" Peter hesitated. "No, Fawkes can be stopped. A time limit, if nothing else. So… what does it mean if he fails?" He frowned. "Chime in here anytime."

Kill Ebony. See what happens.

"Never mind," Peter sighed. "Talk about a rock and a hard place. I can't just let Ebony get killed… but I can't stand back and let Ebony and Fisk unify the gangs, either. One Fisk was enough. I don't want to go through that with his son, too."

Bored now.

"Like you have anything better to do while we're making mesh," Peter replied testily. "Okay. The police have never stopped Ebony, so there's no reason to think they could now. Although… I could call them in to wherever Ebony is hiding. Flush him out so Fawkes can deal with him." He sighed. "Yeah, that worked pretty well when I was being stalked by hit men. No, I don't want any cops killed because of this." He lowered his wrists, watching the fresh shimmer of silk clumped and clotted all over the dummy. He sprayed here and there, evening the coat.

"We're about done here," he said. He picked up the can of black spray paint. Gently, he pushed cardboard circles over the eyes, so they would remain pale. "I can't just let a man die, no matter who it is," he said as he thought back to Fisk. "I'm not a judge, or a jury. But… I have no idea what I'm going to do," he admitted quietly.

Take a nap. Gonna be a long night.

"Finally," Peter said with a wry grin. "Something sensible."

xXx

Urine spattered down into the hole, and Ebony looked on with amusement as he stood over the open grave. Behind him, police tape lay on the cold ground. Two bodyguards watchfully covered the surrounding graveyard, waiting for him to finish his errand.

Ebony shook off, then tucked himself back away and zipped up. "I sure hope that doesn't freeze," he said with a cruel smile. "I want to hear a splash when we toss Fawkes back in there and cover him up."

"We ready?" one of his guards asked.

"We were born ready," Ebony replied. "Let's go bag us some zombie. I can't wait to see if he falls over when shot through the forehead." Ebony chuckled.

They climbed into the car, and roared away through the waning afternoon.

xXx

Slowly, almost sensuously, Peter pulled the mesh down over his face. He closed his eyes, his skin hyper-alert as the silk soothed down like night following sunset.

"This is where you belong," he whispered to the spider ghost. "In here. Leave my life to Peter Parker."

Let's ride, whispered the spider ghost.

And they were gone. Launching through the window, firing out a filament to catch on a cornice, the spider ghost swung down into the shades of dusk that bruised the light over New York.

As he headed for the Rio Canteen, motion caught his eye. A crow, veering away from him. And all thoughts of Ebony faded as Peter fired out web lines and swooped after the bird.

Five minutes of web slinging carried him to the roof of a tenement building, where Peter skidded to a halt as the crow landed on a chimney and croaked.

Fawkes turned to face him. Guns were taped to his torso, he wore the floppy and useless flak jacket. Fawkes nodded briefly, then resumed feeding shells into his shotgun.

"You don't seem surprised to see me," Peter observed.

"You followed the crow," Fawkes said simply.

"Do you control the crow?" Peter asked, again spooked by the dead man's peculiarity.

"There is no control. None is needed," Fawkes said softly, his hoarse voice gentle. "The crow is here to carry the weight and to seek the target. Me?" He cocked the shotgun. "I am here for one purpose only. Revenge. I am an echo," he murmured. "An echo of flesh in spirit, an echo of spirit in flesh."

"Don't. Killing isn't the answer," Peter said, hoping he didn't sound as lame to Fawkes as he did to himself.

"Where there is life, there is hope," Fawkes said wryly. "I'm dead." He shrugged into a long coat. "Funny thing about life. Nobody gets out alive. Killing? It's a matter of timing." His pale, empty eyes transfixed Peter. "I'm not looking for victory. I'm looking for escape. I'm carrying too much, you see. I'll never escape as long as this revenge hangs on me. On us. All of us."

He took a step towards the spider ghost. "Hundreds have died. Hundreds more will die. And Ebony's life is simply one. What is worth more? Ebony's wicked, twisted soul? Or those of his victims?" Fawkes shook his head. "I can't tell you," he murmured. He reached out a hand, something in his eyes shifting. "I can show you." It was almost a plea.

Peter hesitated. Then he reached out and touched Fawkes's hand.

light

He gasped, yanking his hand back. Fawkes stood motionless, waiting. Peter gritted his teeth, and touched the dead man's hand again.

The planet lives. A Web of Light, spanning the globe, and everything inside hazy; decisions, sparks whirling through the endless glow and blaze of life. And the Balance.

Peter staggered slightly, cascades of lives and sparks, flares and glows of emotion and dream twirling through his mind interlinked with the deep, slow, ceaseless breathing of the planet.

Fawkes watched him solemnly. "There is a light in you," he said, "and it is all the brighter for being couched in darkness." He glanced at the crow, who croaked and bounded off the chimney, taking flight. Fawkes turned and ran like an animal, leaping from one roof to the next, following the bird's lazy flight.

"It's all about balance," Peter whispered. And he realized he had always known, in his heart, that balance was the key.

He understood why the crow had sought him out.

And in a flash, he darted after Fawkes. He gained on the dead man as they crossed rooftops, unerringly following the crow. Then Fawkes was flung back, boots whipping up in the air as his chest slammed down on the roofing. The spider ghost's senses hiccuped back, and he caught the muzzle flash from the opposite roof.

Firing out a web line, the spider ghost swung a long, oblique path around and scampered up to the roof. The sniper spun as the shadow landed skidding. Hauling the rifle up, the sniper tried to shoot the new threat—

The spider ghost smacked him, and tossed his rifle off the roof. He sprang from the roof, swinging down to where Fawkes climbed to his feet, an odd sucking sound hissing from his chest as the wound sealed and left no trace.

"It's about balance," the spider ghost said. "You must fight Ebony. I'll watch your back."

Fawkes slowly nodded, then he dropped off the roof and landed in a roll, rising with his trench coat swirling around him as the wind gusted. The four door guards lined up with their machine guns and opened fire, the bullets pounding and snapping into Fawkes. He tumbled back and rolled, popping up out of his somersault with a gun in each hand. He fired, bullets streaking back towards the guards.

They didn't roll with the impacts.

Rising to his feet again, Fawkes strode towards the door as the bullet holes twisted shut. No new scars. The old ones were enough.

Fawkes stepped into the doorway, and two men lashed out at him. One wielded tonfa, the other slung a chain at his legs. Fawkes fired point blank into the man with the chain as the tonfa smacked into his neck, and spine broke under the hit. Fawkes snatched the man and hurled him down the hallway; as the thug fell, he triggered a wire—

Explosives detonated, and flame curled out of the doorway around Fawkes. He picked himself up, and implacably followed the smoking corridor deeper in. Behind him, the spider ghost slipped into the building.

The crow shot out of the curling smoke, spreading its wings and gliding up in a circle in the open concourse of the abandoned department store. Nervous, two ranks of gunmen watched the crow, and the sniper lazily followed it with his scope. Ebony stood at the far end of the concourse, waiting.

Fawkes strode clear, his tattered and bullet-riddled coat flaring behind him, a gun in each hand.

"Fire!" shouted Ebony, and two ranks of gunmen leaned against the recoil of their weapons as they poured small arms fire down at the dead man. Fawkes tumbled to the side, bullets snipping and slapping into him, and he popped up shooting.

Three men down on the balcony, then the grenade launcher coughed and Fawkes leaped to the side, the grenade sending shrapnel and concussive force washing out from the point of impact. He landed tumbling, and he popped up still shooting; his shirt was gone, shot to pieces, and only tatters of his coat clung to him. His eyes were unchanged, so wrapped up in a deep pain that mere physical injury could do him no harm.

Shooters started raining down from the opposite balcony. With startled gasps, then full-bodied screams, the men fell from the second floor to the first, smacking down painfully on the hard floor. Five of the ten were down before the others realized what was going on; automatic fire roared and flickered in the shadows, but it was already too late.

The rattle and roar of gunfire died out into eerie silence. Wounded men groaned and shifted, the dead quietly leaked blood. Footsteps ringing in the quiet, Fawkes approached Ebony, sure and inexorable as death itself.

"I have your answer," he said softly. "I know where Hobb Smith is."

"Yesterday's news," Ebony sneered. He raised his hand and spoke to the microphone on his wrist. "Shoot the bird."

"No!" Fawkes said, alarmed, as the shot rang out.

Peter perched on the wall, too far away to get involved. As though it was in slow motion, he registered the muzzle flash from the top floor, the streaking bullet; the bird twitched aside, but the shot punched through the bird's wing and half of its chest. Like a dark, crumpled rag, the bird fell.

Fawkes dropped to his knees as Ebony regarded him curiously. "See," Ebony said, "I figured you didn't have any trained birds when you were alive. So the whole crow thing must be an undead trick. And I figured it'd at least piss you off. This is way better," he observed as Fawkes clutched himself into a hug, trembling as weight tilted onto him.

Peter dashed along the balcony, then sprang out across open space, catching the bird in his outstretched hands. He folded the bird into the crook of one arm as he whistled down through the air, then he fired out a webline and tugged himself under cover of a balcony as the rifle above cracked shots after him.

Ebony backhanded Fawkes, knocking him down flat. "Stupid ghost," he sighed. "I fear nothing. No man, no spirit. I'm sorry you couldn't rest easy. But it's time you rested." He kicked Fawkes in the ribs, hard, and something cracked. "Truth be told, I'm kind of sorry you aren't invulnerable anymore. Because you could never beat me. Not on your best day. Not on my worst day." He shook his head, looking down at the man who twisted slowly with a strange agony. "Yeah."

Peter, still holding the bird, twirled from one level to the next, landed rolling, spinning around the pillar, and kicked the sniper in the jaw. The man toppled back as his jaw snapped. Peter tossed the rifle to the side, then squatted to examine the bird. He sprayed a bit of mesh over the wound, slowing the blood flow. At least the exit wound was clean; the wing was broken, but the chest was shattered… The crow, oddly docile, allowed him to examine its injury.

"I came… a long way…" Fawkes said, "to tell… you… Hobb Smith died… in an inferno." Fawkes tensed, his eyes flicked up to meet Ebony's casual stare. "You burned him to death. And now?" Fawkes unsteadily rose to his feet. "Hobb Smith is with me. Here. Now."

"This is kinda cool," Ebony grinned. "Too bad more of my victims don't come back for a second helping."

"The answer is complete," Fawkes said simply. His hands darted out, and Ebony knocked one aside as the other snatched his hair and yanked his head back. Startled, Ebony twisted and nabbed Fawkes's wrist, tearing him loose and flinging him in a throw that arced him around and slammed him to the ground right at Ebony's feet.

Fawkes had no breath to lose. He reached up, snatching Ebony's face—

light

Ebony twitched, stumbled. But he could not pry himself free, and his hands became stupid and weak. He dropped to his knees as Fawkes rolled over and painfully levered himself up.

memory

"You have a lot to answer for, yourself," Fawkes whispered. Then his eyes flared with light, and his hand flexed, and some connection sealed between the dead man and his killer. Light, souls, memory twisted from one into the other.

Then Fawkes gently lowered Ebony to the ground. The assassin's eyes were empty, staring. His mouth, slack with horror, twitched. A web line unreeled, and the spider ghost landed at Fawkes's side. He still held the bird, but it was growing still, becoming lighter somehow.

"He is… dying… a thousand… That's the thing… about life…" Fawkes managed as he leaned back and lay flat on the concrete. "Nobody…" His eyes glazed, and peace stole across him. He was free of the weight and the focus, and the last echoes died away.

Before the eyes of the spider ghost, the dead man's flesh sunk and shriveled. In seconds, it looked like the corpse had died a year ago. Peter looked down as he heard the last erratic flutter of the bird's heart… still. Quietly, mournfully, he knelt and arranged the bird at Fawkes's side. Then he looked at Ebony.

"I guess he didn't kill you after all," he murmured to himself. He looked up into the echoing dark of the department store.

In the distance, sirens wailed. By the time the police found the scene of battle, the spider ghost was long gone.

xXx

Mary Jane curled up on the couch, distracted, with the television casting a shifting palette of colors across her. A tapping caught her attention, and she turned to the long French doors that led to the balcony. In the darkness, she saw two pale eyespots.

Quickly rising, she moved to the door and opened it, letting the spider ghost in. Peter pulled his mask up, so she could see his eyes.

"Mary Jane," he said seriously. "It all turned out. But… I gotta ask. What if the apartment was gone."

"Fine," she said. "It was never my home anyway."

"And all the expensive stuff?"

"I just want you," she said solemnly.

He hesitated. "And what if… I went to Strange. To work for him. Full time."

"I'm actually fine with that," she said, her eyes studying his.

He nodded. "This is something I have to do myself," he said.

"I understand." She smiled. "I even packed you some clothes," she said, holding up a backpack.

Peter kissed her, swift and deep, then he was gone.