Now.
The Daily Bugle.
"Urich!"
"I'm listening Mr. Jameson."
"Yeah, good." Jameson clears his throat, scowls and straightens his tie. The one time I actually speak and don't seem intimidated—such as it is, anyway.
Jameson sits back in his chair, letting gravity shift him backward at an angle, letting him stare at the remarkable dinginess of the ceiling above him. Dear God, the paint job in here makes us look poor. The kind of poor that only Newsday can pull.
Jameson leans forward and presses a button on his telephone. A line opens to his secretary.
"Sally?"
"Karen."
"What? Where's Sally?"
"You fired her, Mr. Jameson. I'm your new secretary. What do you need?" I can almost hear the distance in her voice through the line. Boredom. Here's a girl that sounds enthusiastic for her job.
Jameson's eyes dart around in their sockets for a moment. Then he goes back to the receiver: "I'm tired of this gray paint in here; it makes us look like bums! How professional can we get when we look like a prison camp? And I want the newsroom done too."
"I'll get right on it. Though I wonder how a cheap painter will make us look more upscale." The voice gives me something to chortle about. Jameson glances disapprovingly at me for a millisecond, releases the button and goes back to a sheet of loose-leaf on his desk. I crane my neck forward a bit to see Jameson writing out what seem to be directions.
"Mr. Jameson—"
"What?" Jameson's gaze shoots back at me, sitting in front of the desk. Jameson looks almost…angry (or confused) that I'm still sitting in his office. If I didn't know any better, he probably thought he'd shuffled me out minutes ago. Yes, sir. Jonah Jameson's lightning-bolt synapses. Someplace just below Alzheimer's and above cognitive dissonance.
"You, uh, called me down here for a reason? I have a job, you know."
"Yeah, yeah," Jameson waves an expressive hand. "Call this a special assignment." Jameson reaches to his left and grabs the morning edition of the Bugle in his hand. With slight effort, he tosses it across the desk. I catch the paper in midair and glances at the headline:
Doom's Day at Empire State—Details Inside
Jameson points an unwavering finger squarely at my eyes. "They're giving that man a doctorate—moreover they're giving him reason to set foot in this country. You know as well as I do what this is about. It might be good for business, but this isn't gonna be good for anyone."
"I know that," I say, cocking my head to one side. And here I thought Jameson would enjoy rising circulation brought about by a foreign diplomat's visit. Even if said diplomat has…issues. I glance at my wristwatch. 11:30. I cancelled lunch for this—to be berated by Jameson? My time machine works…it's eight years ago all over again, and I'm the newbie in the newsroom. Way to go, Ben.
"Ben," Jameson says with a heavy sigh. "You're the best writer on staff. The one who gets all the big-ticket stories, for some reason. I want you up at the University when this goes down."
"Goes down? I think you're overestimating—"
"I'm asking you as a favor, Ben. Do it or don't, I don't care. I can find someone else."
I freeze for a moment and lets the words run through my mind a few times. Best writer on staff, but you can get someone else? Does not compute, Jonah. My eyes dart back and forth in their sockets quizzically.
"Um…"
"But I'll tell you this, Urich." Here comes the pointed finger. "You've got a sense for the dramatic, I know that. You'll want in on this. I hope you will anyway."
I sigh and lean back in my chair. A sudden pain rears itself in my temples, and I massage it away. A minute or three after Jameson's lips stop flapping, I lift the paper and stare the headline—more particularly, though, the picture in the center of the page. An artist's rendering of some monstrous effigy of Doom standing over that capital city of his with an attached caption shouting 'this land is mine!'
Nice job, Art Department. Way to bring in the new readers…
"All right," I say dismissively. Irritably. "It might be educational."
"Good." On an average day, Jonah goes through about eleven thousand emotions and facial expressions. Right now, he seems oddly calm. Serene, even. He hands the sheet of loose leaf to me. On it are directions to Empire's campus. Gee, Jonah, make me feel small again.
I fold the directions and slip the sheet in the breast pocket of my Oxford. I stand wave a passive 'good-bye' to Jameson, not bothering to see if he's looking back (he probably isn't). And I leave his office. On my way out, my eyes go back to the artist's rendering of Doom on the front page.
At what point did I become the Bugle's super-villain detail?
"Great," I say and feign enthusiasm. "What's next…Norman Osborn?"
The Baxter Building.
"Reed."
Silence. In the darkness of their bedroom, Sue Storm sighs and taps her apparently-comatose husband on the shoulder. He doesn't reply, but snorts brusquely and turns over, pulling the blanket over the curve of his body, trying to shield himself from a cold that doesn't exist.
"Reed." Her voice is heavier this time. More forceful. "Reed, I know you're awake."
A murmur comes from underneath the blanket. "Dr. Richards isn't here right now, but if you'd like to leave a message—"
"Very funny," Sue cuts off narrowly. "Wake up," she says and taps his shoulder in three rapid successions.
Reed lies on his back and lowers the blanket to the middle of his chest; closed eyes stare at the ceiling. To his right, a bronzen light casts the bedroom in a new and different light. Everything looks brighter. Sue taps his chest again.
"Dimmer…lights," he murmurs, rubbing his eyes wearily.
Sue replies and waves a passive hand: "Oh grow up." She sits up and swings her feet out of bed. Moving to the foot of the bed, she grabs bundles of Reed's blanket in both hands and pulls abruptly. The blanket slides off Reed's body as he sighs and props himself up on his elbows.
"Happy now?" he asks.
"Sure," Sue says demurely. Reed rubs his eyes again and glances at the alarm clock on the adjoining nightstand. 5:30 am.
"Wanna tell me what's on your mind, honey?"
Reed replies, not missing a beat: "No."
"Come on." Sue lowers herself to the edge of the bed and clasps her hands neatly in her lap. "You've been tossing and turning all night. What's bugging you?"
"If you must know…"
"I do."
Another sigh. "Victor?"
Sue raises a thoughtful finger to the corner of her mouth. "And here I thought I was the one dreaming about other men."
"You've read the papers, Sue. You know what I'm talking about."
"Yes," she says, and follows Reed to the bathroom. "I was trying to be light-hearted about it. So much for that."
"I've been running over the facts for a day or two now. Ever since the first story broke," Reed says acutely. 5:30 in the morning and he's already in super-science mode. Cherish the moments, Sue. With a flick of his wrist, Reed turns on the faucet, and runs his hands under the steady stream of water. "I can't figure what the University's getting at. Or what anyone intends to do about this."
"Do about it?" Sue looks in the mirror and sees herself reflected. Standing behind her husband, one of her arms gently massaging his shoulder as he washes his face.
"Yeah," Reed replies and yawns. "It's not exactly a well-kept secret that Victor's done…criminal things in the past. On our soil. If he actually decides to come, the mayor will probably get Tony or Steve to keep him in line—or one of us. It'll be like a fourth-grade playground: everyone suspicious of Victor and his apprehension as well; just waiting for an excuse to throw everything they've got at him."
"You're talking about reprisals." It's not a question.
"Yes." Reed turns off the water and walks out of the bathroom. Sue follows. When she reaches the bureau, she pulls a robe on and makes for the hallway and, beyond, the kitchen.
From the kitchen, she calls: "Reed honey, do you want some eggs?"
He calls from the bedroom, down the hall: "That's fine, dear." A moment later, Reed stands next to Sue, inspecting the eggs. Scrambled. Just as he liked them. Clever. Reed walks toward the coffee pot, pours himself a mug-full, and returns to the kitchen table.
"So anyway," Sue offers, trying to reignite conversation. "Victor?"
"Yes," Reed says, swiftly moving the mug away from his mouth. "One of two things can happen here. One, he takes the University up on the offer—which is unlikely—and comes here. If that happens, he'll claim his diplomatic immunity just to stay safe and we'll be powerless to hold him back. Two, he can crumple up their invitation and throw it back in their faces."
"What do you think?" Sue asks. Carrying an omelet-laden plate in one hand, she sits at the table and starts in on her breakfast.
"Personally, I hope he tells them to go to Hell."
"But he won't. Will he?"
"You might be right, dear." Another sip of coffee.
And then silence. Reed's brow furls. It does this when he's thinking. Super-scientist mode continues, and Sue's eyebrows arch pensively. Waiting for her husband to reach a thought—or to simply articulate it.
"Reed." Sue's voice cuts through the silence. "Reed honey, if you're so worried about this, maybe you should—"
"I'm going to Latveria."
Around this time, Sue shrinks in her seat. Her hand, holding a fork, quivers in the air as her husband stands from the table and finishes the last of his coffee. And I was just going to mention talking to the University about it, not going into the lion's den.
"Honey, you—you can't be serious."
"I am, Sue. It'll be no different than any other time we've been there. Except this time I'm not looking for a fight. I suspect Victor isn't either."
"But—at least take Johnny or Ben with you."
"No good, dear. If Victor sees anyone else but me walking up to his castle, the end result could be drastically altered."
Sue asks touches a hand to her mouth in veiled surprise. It wasn't uncharacteristic, in a way, for Reed to take on something like this. But it was odd that he seemed to want to do it alone. "End result?"
"I've known Victor since college, Sue. Despite our misgivings in the past, you know as well as I do that he's a man of his word. With any luck, I can appeal to the better angels of his nature and see if he won't refuse the University's offer."
"What makes you think he will?"
"His distaste for America will—or should anyway—trump whatever egotistic compunctions he'll have. I can use that. I hope."
Continued...