Author's Note: As oft happens in my stories, this installment was penned by the magnificent markmark261, who spends most of his time in "Smallville," but we can overlook that. It was a chance for me to get caught up on other things, and for mark to give this a whirl. Call it a fill-in if you like, but thank you mark. And to you, constant reader, enjoy.
"At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher."
--Abraham Lincoln
Now.
The Daily Bugle.
I sit at Jameson's terminal, trying the obvious passwords, while he sits next to me, webbed to his chair, angrily looking on. Unfortunately the obvious passwords don't work and I curse myself for not checking his computer first. Before the password-protected Mary Jane Watson screensaver had a chance to kick in. Of course, I could just steal his hard drive and access the information later on.
But that's more of a bad guy thing to do, and nowhere near as fun.
While I'm trying to second-guess Jonah's choice of password, his webbed-up mouth's making muffled curses and his feet are stamping near-continuously on the floor. I'd be worried about it drawing attention, but for Jameson? Anyone who can hear it from the bullpen will think its business as usual.
Suddenly, inspiration hits. There's one name I haven't tried.
"Thank you, War Games," I say, as I enter the name of Jameson's son, John. Of course, John's name was one of the first ones I tried, but the first time around I didn't spell it Man-Wolf.
I press the enter key only to see that that password doesn't work either. Maybe I shouldn't have included the hyphen, but I know how mad I get when they miss the hyphen out of my name and—
My name.
I look at Jameson. "No, it can't be." Color me surprised just the same.
Jameson falls silent for a moment. I type in Spider-Man and the next second I'm into his account, accessing his hard drive, looking around for information and, quite frankly, I can't believe what I find. I don't know what Reed was expecting but I'm fairly sure it wasn't this.
Jameson falls silent, even embarrassed, as my search extends to the internet, leafing through his favorites, checking his history, and find a mixture of sightings, rumors, speculations, urban myths about the one thing most important to Jameson. Of all the things on the web to look at, he looks at this. It's a web of truths. A web of lies. All of them a web of the amazing, spectacular, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
Funny. I wasn't expecting to learn anything about myself today.
"I didn't know you cared, Jonah," I say, as I finally manage to divert my attention from his computer.
Jonah stamps his feet some more and replies with some muffled, no doubt witty repartee. My spider-sense starts tingling. Somebody must be coming. I run to the bay window and climb out on to the wall.
Three minutes later I'm back in Jameson's office, hiding where he'll never see me.
In front of me a secretary I don't recognize is trying to pull my web from Jonah's mouth.
"Who did this?" she asks in all innocence. Definitely new.
The web holding Jameson—still struggling—to his chair dissolves and he leaps to his feet. He pushed the secretary aside with a forceful arm and heads for his computer.
Webbing's dissolved. Means that I must have wasted an hour searching his desk and surfing the web and I still couldn't find anything. I guess Reed's just being paranoid. So Jonah knows that Doom's getting a doctorate—could have been the University's PR office letting the island's biggest circulating paper in on the news. That simple.
But….maybe…
Then I notice a sheet of paper on Jonah's desk that wasn't there before. As I inch forward to try and look at it, Jonah starts looking around his office.
"WHRIZZEE," he shouts through the web covering his mouth.
"Sorry?" says the secretary. I finally get close enough to read the carefully-scripted small caps on the note.
"You stupid, brain-dead bimbo," shouts Jameson, and then realizes that the webbing around his mouth has also dissolved. Undeterred he continues. "Spider-Man's been snooping in here the last hour or so. He could still be here. Make yourself useful and call the police!"
"Maybe you should keep your windows locked," suggests the secretary, trying to be helpful.
"And make it look like I'm afraid of him? No way, Sharon," he says, as he looks out of the bay window at the surrounding walls, hoping to spot me.
"It's Karen," she says, pointing a protesting finger in the air. Jameson ignores her and starts looking under his desk. What's he doing that for? He's looking for a spider, not a McFly.
"I'm sure he's here somewhere," says Jameson. He narrows his eyes, and his lips curl upwards in a kind of smile only the Grinch could pull off. He turns his gaze to the ceiling and his smile disappears.
"Looking to the heavens for inspiration?" I ask Jonah.
Jonah's gaze falls from the ceiling and turns towards me. At last, I've been noticed.
"Parker?" he shouts.
"I just wanted to see if you've got any work for me." I shrug. "Geezers playing chess in the park got…old."
"After those pictures of smoke you brought back from the University—" he begins angrily, and then Karen interrupts him.
"Mister Jameson," she says, pointing the finger in the air again. "There's an urgent message for you. I left it on your desk."
Jameson walks over to the desk and picks up the note that I've already read. A note that confirms Reed's suspicions were right.
As Jameson reads the note, his anger towards me wanes. "Get to Latveria, Parker. Maybe you can get some decent pictures there."
"At the risk of a stupid question, boss," I argue. "How? Company jet? It's not exactly a tourist destination."
"Show some initiative, Parker," he yells, "and close the door on your way out!"
"Sure thing," I say, as I leave the office, and then it's back into my other work clothes as I try and figure out a way to get to Latveria and tell Reed what I've found out and what it means…before it's too late.
On my way to the street, I think about the name 'Frost.' What an odd name...
Now.
The SHIELD Helicarrier, in the skies above Spain.
I'm stuck with Iron Man and Captain America on a long flight to Latveria. Sad for me that they're not the best company in the world. Iron Man seems to be keeping to himself; Cap keeps regaling me with war stories about the first Human Torch, and the 'good old days' when Namor actually contributed to society. I feign interest and wonder whether I should be telling him a story about the Acrobat.
Then, much to my relief, Iron Man interrupts the Captain's latest tale. "Incoming transmission."
A picture of Colonel Fury suddenly pops up from one of the many viewscreens situated aboard the SHIELD Helicarrier. I almost wonder why he doesn't bother showing up in person. Maybe Sharon Carter's got more of his interest than we do…
"Captain America," he says with some manner of smugness. He puffs on the cigar screwed between his lips. "We need to talk about this Doom situation."
"I know my orders, Colonel," says Captain America, walking towards the view screen. His eyes are fixed on Fury, and when he speaks there's a certain…security to his voice. Very few people can be both condescending and gracious at once. Cap pulls it off nicely. "I'm bringing Doom in."
"And I'm the UN liaison. The one who sets resources and timetables here, Steve. So I suggest you listen."
"I've got my shield, Colonel," replies Captain America, raising his arm to show it. "I don't think I need yours."
"You do know who you're facing, don't you?" says Fury. I almost wonder if he knows who he's facing. He seems unnaturally wound-up about this. Probably wishes he were at home with a good book or a good cigar. Or something better than either of those.
"A criminal. A terrorist." Cap says it with the same flat sternness as before. "I understand this, Nick."
At which stage, Iron Man intervenes. "I think we can handle things, Colonel Fury."
"You really think so?" asks a skeptical Fury.
"You don't?" Cap asks.
I can't keep quiet any longer. "Colonel? Hi, Johnny Storm here. Love your eye-patch. Very mysterious; sure the girls like it too. But if I may? Usually it just takes four of us to have tea with Doom. The other three are there now…Reed's trying to reason with him."
"Reason with him?" says Fury. "You can't reason with Doom. I've known tyrants and I've known dictators and they make up their own reason. I don't think I need to cite Genosha here."
"This is different. But since we're on the subject, what did you have in mind?" asks Iron Man. "You're a military man, Nick; you know that he'll expect a frontal assault. There's no point sending all your troops directly against Doom. You must realize that he knows all about your weapons—and that he's devised capable countermeasures. Along with myself, he probably designed the prototypes. No, we need to be subtle. And we're only after Doom; the last thing I want is the body of a dead Latverian on the six o'clock news."
"I didn't have a bloodbath in mind," replies Fury. "SHIELD can do subtle. SHIELD can do stealth. We'll be your back-up if anything goes wrong."
"I've been deputized to bring Doom in," says Captain America. He folds his arms over his chest, lets the shield rest against one of his motionless legs. "I don't want you or your forces getting in my way. Keep this Helicarrier at the ready, but restrain yourself. Deal?"
"Understood, Captain," said Fury. "But if you fail…"
"We won't," says Iron Man, waving a hand expressively, turning away from a monitor panel to enter the conversation again. "With Captain America, Johnny and the web-spinning stowaway my radar's just detected, Doom doesn't stand a chance."
Colonel Fury, despite the viewscreen, somehow manages to look directly at Iron Man. When he speaks, the grit in his voice sounds suddenly new.
"Don't underestimate Doom. He's designed some of our most sophisticated weapons without even thinking about it. A man who created a lethal suit of armor—a precise replication of which we've been unable to perfect in thirty years. A man who's conquered time-travel, can swap minds, and has wielded the power cosmic. Aside from that, he knows government and military secrets that even I can't get access to. Doctor Doom is the most dangerous man alive. I mean it, Stark. And until he's safely locked up with round-the-clock supervision nobody on this Earth is safe. That's why, even though I have an advantage in this area, I'm not prepared to turn a blind eye to his activities. I don't want to go to war with Doom—I'd feel safer going to war against the Kree, truth be told. But if it has to be done, it has to be done."
"Very well, Nick." Iron Man strokes his metal chin. "If we need help, we'll ask for it. Deal?"
Fury nods. "Just give the signal and SHIELD's finest will storm that castle. I only hope it doesn't come to that. Over and out."
While Captain America and Iron Man exchange glances, I slip away to a secluded corner of the Helicarrier and contact Reed to warn him about what's coming his way.
Soon.
Castle Doom.
Victor and I sit in the highest of Castle Doom's towers, locked in battle.
"Surprised by my opening gambit?" he asks. A steel hand removes a pawn from the board.
"Indeed," I reply, as my neck stretches and my head circles the board, trying to see things from Victor's angle. "That pawn didn't pose any threat to you. Then again…neither did Dr. Thomas."
Underneath the grey-steel mask, Victor's brown eyes blink slowly and only once.
"I fail to see how that is my fault, Richards. The University was foolish enough to invite me, foolish enough to waste valuable time and their resources. They should be prepared to face the consequences of the life they choose."
"And you? Have you faced those consequences?"
"Don't dare impugn my honor." Victor's voice rises sharply.
"He was just an innocent victim," I argue, hoping that Victor will show some remorse.
"Melodrama is wasted on you, Richards," he says, rising to his feet. He throws his cape behind his shoulders and lets the wind carry it out behind him. He walks out on a nearby battlement and extends a finger—pointing down, beyond the parapet, to the streets below. "Tell me, would you truly feel pity if one of those dots stopped moving?"
I recline in my seat and stare at him expectantly, not blinking. He sets his sights on one of his subjects. "That one. The man and his offspring, carrying his wares to the market. I would give but a second's thought to his extermination."
My arms stretch, wrapping around his hand, and he looks back at me with amusement. "Very well, Richards, I'll spare him… for the moment. Now, let's get back to our game."
As I follow him back into the tower, I look out over Latveria and see the darkness slowly closing in. It'll still be light back home. America will be waking up to reports of death and destruction at Empire State. And here, I'll be playing wits with Victor.
Victor sits back down at the board, and I try and turn the conversation back to the present predicament. "Barring Dr. Thomas, that incident at the University wasn't your fault."
"Agreed," Victor nods curtly, "but it matters not. Your compatriots are set in their ways, on a path to destroy me, no doubt."
"Of course it matters," I tell him. "They're blaming you for something you didn't do. Exoneration is the only solution."
"True," says Victor. "I have become accustomed to persecution. It is a hallmark of my people. But I do not ask for your sympathies or your charity, Richards. It is the persecutors you shall feel sorry for. Soon enough."
"She'd love it here." I sit back in the chair and cross my arms, staring at Victor narrowly.
"What?" Victor's voice is flat.
"Your mother. She'd be so proud of you. Of what you've become. And what a nice police state you run."
Victor falls silent for a moment, and then angrily thrusts a fist out, knocking pieces from the chessboard.
"Stalemate," he says, getting to his feet, then stops as he's suddenly distracted by something he sees outside. There, on the horizon, is a SHIELD Helicarrier. He turns back to me, the wind pressing his green cape close to his body
"Well?"
"What?"
"Our prescient situation, Richards. Would you suggest that I stand and fight, or surrender and tell the truth?"
"I can help you, Victor," I tell him. "In a few minutes, that Helicarrier is going to drop about 500 troops on us, and we'll have to fight to exonerate you. I just wanted you to know. I'm here to help."
"A comforting thought, Richards. I shall cherish it in my dreams." Victor's eyes pan toward me derisively. "You think they would listen to you? A man who sees eternal good in anyone? A man who would defend Galactus, the devourer? No. They fear me more than they respect you. And this exercise shall demonstrate that."
"But—"
"He may be of more assistance than you know, Victor. But you're the one we truly want."
I turn around, to see a man and woman stepping out of the shadows. A man, tall and dark-haired with a colonial ponytail draping down to his neckline, is dressed in nineteenth century costume, with frilled cuffs partially covering his hands. The blonde woman at the man's side has a white cape and matching lingerie, with all the wrong parts showing bronzen skin.
And it occurs to me that I've seen these people before. I've heard Charles talk about them.
Sebastian Shaw, the Black King of the Hellfire Club. And Emma Frost, his White Queen.
Continued...