I finally update, and my Loyal Minions are nowhere in sight...(sigh)

Chapter 11: Blinding Sun

"Any ideas, Spider-Man?" asked Cypher. She reloaded her two handguns. This is what it's like to be Agent Cindy Cypher, right now:

This latest mission transcends business. Even though your husband and infant son perished in the blazing end of the World Trade Center, it even transcends duty to country.

You are on a mission of vengeance: hunting down the murderer of your neurosurgeon mother and his hostage, the murderer's clone, a soulless monster all but destined to repeat his sordid history.

And you will do anything for that revenge. Anything.

"I wish I had some." Spider-Man was deep in thought.

"Think like your enemy, Spider-Man. Think what you would do if you were that eight-armed lunatic. The FBI employs profilers for that exact reason: you must understand evil in order to defeat it."

Spider-Man thought. What, exactly, had Doc Ock stolen in the past two weeks?

Sonic amplifiers. Metal cylinders. Metal girders. Computer chips. Control panels. Equipment too arcane to describe here.

It was a giant mental jigsaw puzzle. Grasping at his intuition, Spidey mentally put the pieces together to form the picture of Doctor Octopus' Plan for World Domination.

"A radiation ray! That's what he's building. At the core is a variant of the miniature sun he first tried to create years ago!" Ah, I've got it.

Cypher's eyes widened. Operation Apollo was the assassination of Otto Octavius. Apollo, the Greek god of the sun.

How fitting for a scientist who would control the sun.

"Explain."

"He's still trying to build that nuclear fireball. It's the symbol of his ultimate failure, and Ock's ego cannot abide failure. But he's more ambitious this time. He wants to focus that energy into a deadly ray with which he can hold a whole city or state for ransom."

Cypher's eyes widened in horror. "But why?"

"For money, for power, for my defeat? I don't even know. But he still doesn't have everything he needs."

"What's missing?"

"Tritium. An extremely rare form of hydrogen especially suited for nuclear fusion. It was the thing that made the sun go."

"Where did he get it last time?"

"The man he got it from, Harry Osborn—he is no longer alive. But I know where his company is."

Spidey extended his hand, triggering his web-shooting organs. "It'll be faster this way for me. We'll separate and then meet at Oscorp Industries."

This is what it's like to be Spider-Man, right now:

Swinging, gliding through the air on thin strands of spider web silk stronger than steel—a rush, a thrill, but a hollow, bitter one.

You would much rather be home, cuddling your wife. You would rather be playing catch with your five-year-old son, holding your infant daughter. But you cannot.

You remember when fate tossed power your way. You were too selfish to use them to stop a robber. That very robber killed the uncle who had raised you from childhood. Your son bears his name, so you would never forget him, never forget his words.

"With great power must always come great responsibility."

Children throughout New York City know your name, follow your super-powered exploits like kids everywhere else do Shaquille O'Neal or Tiger Woods or Serena Williams. They look out the window as you swing and shout, "Look, it's Spider-Man!" as if your very name could create a miracle. They know that when their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man arrives on the scene, those dirty crooks and super-criminals are gonna wish they'd stayed in bed today.

They can relate to you. You are unlike any who have come before.

You are not noble-born like the Sub-Mariner.

You are not respected like the Fantastic Four; in fact, you are publicly branded a menace.

You are bright, but not as intellectually gifted as Professor Xavier.

You are not wealthy, like the Iron Man: in fact, it's all you can do just to get your rent in on time.

And you are certainly nowhere near as powerful as the Hulk.

But you are loved. And you wonder why.

Because they don't know you. They are loving an image.

Because, in the end, superheroes are created not by radioactive spiders, but by the media. In the end, Spider-Man is just a suit. And when you strip that suit off, you are just an ordinary man who just happens to have extraordinary power.

You are Peter Parker.

And right now, that is all you want to be.

Spider-Man raced towards the Oscorp lab, towards the most heavily guarded storage facility, deftly leaping over triggered laser beams.

The place was empty, but his spidey senses still tingled. As he hesitated to figure out what danger a totally empty room could possibly pose, a whir of metal whipped toward him.

Spidey leapt.

Half a second too slow.

Knocked high into the air, Spidey still managed to land on his hands and somersault upright. With the ringing shout, "The doctor is in, and this won't hurt a bit!" the mad scientist swam into view.

His hostage rode piggyback. He slipped a vial of precious tritium, cold gray liquid, out of his pocket, and then slipped it in again.

He smiled. "You're too late, Spider-Man. You figured out what I was planning, but your feeble mind, I daresay, is simply no match for my phenomenal genius. I'll always be eight steps ahead of you."

The key to defeating evil is understanding it.

The secret to defeating this particular supervillain, Spidey knew, was to dodge the mechanically strong tentacles until he could get close enough to knock him in the jaw as hard as he could. Aside from those arms, the good doctor had only human strength.

The tentacles tossed Spidey toward a wall; the hero quickly righted himself, clung to the wall, crouched, and sprang at Octopus headfirst. But Ock faded into empty air.

"What in the hell?" Spidey muttered. He's found a way to make himself invisible, he glumly thought.

When his finely tuned instinctual perception that was his spidey-sense warned him of the unseen tentacle whipping behind him, he didn't think twice. He leapt again.

"Blast!" The villain swam into view again. "Hold still, you cretin, and make my job easier!" He disappeared just as quickly.

There was something funny about his spidey-sense, though. It was ringing with the signal he usually got from Octavius. But it was coming from…

His hostage!

How could this teenage girl carry the same threat as this mad scientist maniac—

--standing right in front of him, unseen, according to his intuition?

His spidey-sense told him what to do. Spidey didn't know why it might work, but he knew what to do. He didn't think twice.

With his left hand, Spidey triggered his webbing. With the right, he made a flying punch. His spidey-sense was now a beacon blaring: The super-villain's jaw is right here.

Something slipped off the doctor's right wrist, fading into view: a strange copper bracelet. At the same time, the hero's right fist connected squarely with the villain's jaw, sending him flying as he shouted:

"Strike, Octavia, strike!"