TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy

Author's Notes

The quotation from Dr. Otto Octavius is taken verbatim from: Peter David, Spider-Man 2 - The Official Novelization of the Film (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2004), p. 78.

GRE - Graduate Record Examination - An examination administered to undergraduates to test their general aptitudes for graduate study.

MCAT - Medical College Admission Test.

Disclaimer

This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon: Spider-Man, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Spider-Man 2, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Daredevil - Director's Cut, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and Hulk, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.

VI

COMMITMENT

By the time Peter landed on his terrace and slipped through his open window, it was nearly 2:00 AM. He swiftly got undressed and put on the sweats that doubled as pajamas. As he climbed into bed, his Flying Dutchman love poem fell to the floor. He didn't even bother to pick it up. Likewise, he didn't notice the summons that was lying on the floor. It had been shoved under his door by Ursula Ditkovitch, after he had left for Mary Jane's. He turned off the light, too exhausted to go out on patrol. Within minutes, he fell asleep, with visions of Mary Jane, Harry Osborn, Daredevil, and Dr. Connors dancing in his head.

At promptly 9:45 the next morning, Peter arrived at the Washington Square Arch, the centerpiece of the N.Y.U. campus, a miniature Arc de Triomphe. There weren't too many people walking around campus, even though it was a bright, sunny April Sunday, with nary a cloud in the sky. The flowers and trees were coming into full bloom. Perfect day for an execution, he thought, rather glumly. What the hell was I thinking, letting Mary Jane watch Connors hand me my head on a plate?

His spider-sense must have been turned off. As he was standing beneath the arch, the aroma of Emma Rose strawberry perfume suddenly filled his nostrils, and a pair of hands that were not his appeared in his field of vision and covered his eyes. They were soft and feminine. And the voice that owned those hands made him forget, at least for the moment, the sense of foreboding accompanying his visit to Dr. Connors.

"I'll give you three guesses who this is," Mary Jane said softly, "And you'd better get it right the first time."

"Uh . . . Gwen?" Peter said, referring to Gwen Stacy, his lab partner in advanced microbiology. At that answer, Mary Jane yanked on his hair.

"Wrong!" she said with a slight giggle, knowing that he was just teasing her.

"Aunt May?"

"I'll take that as a compliment, but no." She reached around his neck as if to strangle him. "Strike two."

"Well then, maybe it's . . . Rumpelstiltskin!"

"Right, and you know what that means," Mary Jane laughed. "I get to have your first-born!"

As he turned around to behold his beloved, she leaped into his arms for a long, passionate kiss.

"Okay, okay, M.J.," he said, pulling back as she gave him a wide-eyed-lost-puppy look for having broken the kiss. "Let's go. The executioner awaits."

"Oh Peter, don't be so doomy-gloomy," Mary Jane admonished, "he's probably going to tell you to go to medical school or something."

"From your mouth to God's ear, I should only be so lucky," he said. "Come on. Connors' office is over this way."

Holding hands, they walked across the main quad, past the student union, the commons, and the library. In her jeans and rose sweater, Mary Jane blended into the campus environment perfectly. She appeared to be just another N.Y.U. student spending a Sunday out with her boyfriend. "There," Peter said as he pointed to a building with a sign identifying it as, Science I. They walked inside, turned left, and proceeded down the corridor until they came to a door marked, Department of Biological Sciences - Curtis N. Connors, M.D. - Ph.D. - Chair.

The door was partially open. Peter swallowed and knocked on the door. His hand was trembling. There was no answer. He knocked again, a little bit louder this time. Still no answer. "Dr. Connors?" Peter called.

"Come in, Parker," replied Connors, his voice coming from the far end of the office. As Peter pushed in the door, Mary Jane imagined him as the cowardly lion trying to get up the courage to ask the Wizard of Oz for courage. She found it endearing that Spider-Man, the great and powerful, could actually be afraid of another human being.

Peter and Mary Jane stepped inside the office. It was a large octagonal-shaped room, surrounded by professors' individual cubicles. The largest cube, directly across from the main entrance, was Connors'. The place seemed deserted until Connors emerged, holding a student's term paper in his left hand . . . his only hand. Peter recognized it immediately. It was the paper he'd done on Otto Octavius. He'd completed it within two days of that first disastrous demonstration, and had incorporated Octavius's own data into his analysis. In essence, the paper posed the same question that Peter had asked Otto over lunch, namely whether fusion reactions could be contained by magnetic fields. Otto's second experiment, the one that almost took Mary Jane's life, confirmed Peter's theory. He was glad that Otto had never read it.

Professor Connors' eyes fell upon Mary Jane. "And who is this lovely young lady?" he inquired pleasantly.

"Dr. Connors, this is Mary Jane Watson, my fian. . . my very special friend." He didn't want call Mary Jane his fiancée because they were not engaged, not yet anyway, and he didn't want to be too presumptuous. Mary Jane did not appear to notice his stumble. She merely nodded and said politely, "Good morning, Professor."

Dr. Connors was staring at her intently, trying to remember whether he'd seen her before. But unlike Norman Osborn and J. Jonah Jameson, he did not intimidate Mary Jane in the least. Of course, he was not Peter's father, although he did give her the distinct impression of having a fatherly interest in him.

Suddenly, the light of recognition flashed in his eyes. "You're the featured performer in The Importance of Being Earnest, over at the Lyric, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," she said with a smile and a slight blush.

"My wife and I are frequent theater-goers. We often visit the Lyric. I must say that you delivered a wonderful performance as Cecily."

"Thank you, sir. That's very kind of you." All those horror stories Peter told her and Harry about Professor Connors over the years must have been exaggerations. He seemed like a very nice man.

"Tell me something, Miss Watson," Dr. Connors continued. "Do you have stake in this young man's future?"

"Yes . . . I do," she replied earnestly.

"Then I suggest that you join us, since what I am going to tell Mr. Parker will no doubt affect you as well."

Peter's face remained impassive, but inwardly, he was groaning. Connors was probably going to tell him to find another major and use Mary Jane to reinforce his point.

Dr. Connors motioned them inside his cubicle. It was cluttered with books, folders, laboratory reports, correspondence, photographs, three laptops, and all sorts of other odds and ends. The two chairs in front of Connors' desk were being used as storage space for student papers, most of which were still ungraded.

"Just go ahead and move those papers out of the way," Connors told them. "You can put them over there, in the corner."

They sat down once the papers were cleared. Mary Jane could not help noticing the expression on Peter's face. It was that of a condemned prisoner who'd stuck his head in the guillotine and was waiting for the blade to fall, resigned to his fate. He sat absolutely straight, his hands folded on his lap. Connors sat down behind his desk and put Peter's paper in front of him.

"Mr. Parker," he began, "Your class term paper was three weeks late. Under normal circumstances, your grade would drop by a full letter. . ."

This is it—I'm doomed, thought Peter, his heart pounding. He truly believed that Connors was going to fail him. He truly would rather have been clinging to the stern of the Titanic as it was nosing down for the final plunge than be where he was at that moment, he thought.

That is, until he heard the next thing that came out of Dr. Connors' mouth.

"But this paper is absolutely staggering! It is a tremendous piece of work, a first-rate scientific article worthy of publication! You've thoroughly critiqued Dr. Octavius's theories and presented a point-by-point rebuttal of his interpretations of the experimental data. The references are all there. It's flawless. What's even more amazing is that physics is only your secondary field." He paused. "Tragically, what you predicted turned out to be right." He thumbed through the paper until he found its conclusion and read it aloud to them:

"To summarize, a self-sustaining fusion reaction of the type posited by Dr. Octavius cannot be contained, no matter how strong the magnetic containment field. The fusion reaction would be simply get stronger and larger until it reached its point of natural equilibrium, which would normally be the size of a sun. At that point, the exchange of energy between the reaction and its surrounding environment would be in balance, which would render the need for containment superfluous. . ."

His point having been made, Connors stopped reading and put the paper down. "I'm giving you an 'A+' on this paper despite your tardiness, Mr. Parker. And since the paper carries the most weight, you'll probably get an "A" for the course and, miraculously, preserve your perfect GPA."

Peter's jaw dropped. He just sat there in his chair, dumbfounded, almost catatonic. "Hey!" Mary Jane said teasingly, waving her hand up and down in front of his face to snap him out of it.

"Peter," Dr. Connors went on. He never addressed students using first names— that is, unless he thought the student was something special. "I've been teaching at this university for almost thirty five years now. I spent those years looking down the pike for that once-in-a-century intelligence capable of orchestrating a scientific revolution. And until I read your paper, I had all but given up hope that my eyes would ever behold the messiah."

Peter looked like he was ready to go into shock. Surely, he can't be talking about me, he was thinking. But Mary Jane was not surprised. She knew that Peter was brilliant. He'd taken a boatload of advanced placement courses at Midtown, he'd won numerous awards, including the prestigious Westinghouse Talent Search and the Senior Class Science Award . . . He has so much on the ball. Why does he sell himself so goddamn short? she asked herself in frustration as she observed her boyfriend's rather bizarre reactions to his teacher's praise.

Dr. Connors continued. "There have been hundreds of papers critiquing Otto's work in professional journals, but none of them reflect the clarity of thought and original insights that I saw in yours." He put his hand down on the desk and leaned forward, as close to Peter's face as he could get.

"The last conversation I ever had with Otto was about you. Did you know that? He told me all about your dinner get-together with him and Rosie. Do you know what he said to me? He said, 'Curtis, you've got to light a fire under that boy's ass and put his nose to the grindstone. He's got Nobel Prize written all over him.' "

Peter couldn't believe it. Otto said that? About me? As Connors spoke, he recalled the admonition he'd gotten the day he'd met Otto Octavius for the first time— "Being brilliant isn't enough. You have to work hard. Intelligence isn't a privilege, it's a gift. It's not yours to waste. We've been given the power of intelligence for a purpose: to use it for the good of mankind." Neither Connors nor Mary Jane noticed a tiny tear forming on the corner of his right eye. At that moment, he wished that Otto Octavius was still alive, that he'd never become Doc Ock. What a mentor he would have made.

Suddenly, Peter remembered that Mary Jane might've had a very different opinion of Otto Octavius. "Um . . . Dr. Connors, you should know that Mary Jane was Otto's hostage."

"My God, that's right!" Connors exclaimed. He remembered seeing Mary Jane on the news telling reporters what had happened. He started to say something to her, but Mary Jane, thinking quickly on her feet, held up her hand.

"Wait a minute, Pete," she said gently, and turned toward the professor. "Dr. Connors, it's true that he kidnapped me and almost killed me with his experiment. But Peter once idolized him, and that tells me that he must have been a good man and a great scientist before the accident that turned him into that . . . that thing. And you should know, Professor, that in the end, Dr. Octavius did the right thing and destroyed that machine himself, at the cost of his own life. I've forgiven him, and it won't bother me if you talk about him."

"I appreciate your understanding, Miss Watson," Connors said, tears gathering in his eyes. "We in the scientific community lost an invaluable colleague and I lost one of my closest and dearest friends. Thank you."

Peter looked at Mary Jane in utter amazement. She knew exactly the right thing to say at exactly the right time, and now she had Connors eating right out of her hand. What a charmer, he thought with pride.

"I'll be frank with you Peter," Connors continued, getting back on track. "Intelligence as vast as yours does not belong to you. It belongs to mankind. You are its custodian, nothing more. Your job is to feed it, care for it, nurture it, and bring it to full flower so that all of humanity can eat of its fruits. But you've been a very poor custodian of what has been entrusted to you. As I watched your performance deteriorate this semester, I became very angry and frustrated that you were squandering your magnificent gifts. And I'LL BE DAMNED if I'm going to stand by and watch you fritter it away."

Peter accepted Connors' judgment humbly, without protest.

"After I'd read your paper, I realized that I had seriously misjudged you," the professor continued, "You're not lazy, you're just bored! You are one of the gifted few who can skip classes the entire semester and still get A's. And that's because our undergraduate curriculum does not present you with challenges commensurate with your capabilities. I should have recognized that much sooner. You're a Mozart, Peter. You should be at Harvard, or Princeton, not here."

"Well sir, to be honest . . ." Peter felt it was beneath him to give his professor another sob story. But it really was the truth, and Dr. Connors did ask. "I did get into those schools, as well as Yale, Stanford, Brown, Penn, and Notre Dame. But my uncle died a few months before I graduated high school, and I've had to support my aunt ever since. And N.Y.U. is the only school that gave me a full four-year scholarship." Of course, he could never tell Connors the most important reason why he had to remain in New York, or the true extent of the burdens he'd taken on.

Connors' expression softened. "I understand, and I'm not unsympathetic. In fact, I admire the fact that you've sacrificed so much for your loved ones. But as your academic advisor, and your friend, I have to point out that you're scattering your energies and driving yourself to exhaustion. You'll never reach your full potential if you don't focus on what's important."

"Yes, sir," Peter said meekly. For the first time since he woke up that morning, he started to think that maybe this meeting with Connors would not turn out to be so bad. Maybe it would give him some much-needed direction. And as it turned out, that's exactly what it would do.

Connors turned back to Mary Jane. "Miss Watson, as a rule I do not pry into the personal lives of my students, but in this case, I am compelled to make an exception. You picked a real winner here. Peter is a once-in-a-lifetime talent who has a thorough grasp of where twenty-first century science is heading. It's changing, becoming more interdisciplinary. Just in medicine alone, specialties that don't even exist yet will be commonplace in twenty years. Peter understands all that, instinctively. He has the intellectual heft that it takes to be on the cutting edge! But he must commit himself totally to this endeavor."

His voice was starting to take on the urgency of John the Baptist crying in the wilderness. "No one can make this kind of commitment who doesn't have a steady, reliable life partner by their side who can give them stability. I can see just by your presence here that you can do that for him. If you are ready to make a commitment, then make it as soon as you can. I guarantee that he'll write your ticket for the rest of your lives."

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Mary Jane affirmed as she turned to Peter and took his hand in hers. She was trying to stifle a bout of laughter that was coming on. After what Connors had been saying, she found it hysterical that Peter had actually thought the professor was going to flunk him. She held her free hand over her mouth and feigned a cough to keep from cracking up. I'm a damn good actress, she thought wryly.

"Now Peter," Connors continued, "this is what you need to do for the remainder of your tenure at this university. Stay away from the upper-level undergraduate science courses. They're a waste of your time, and the last thing you need is another easy "A." First, let's get your paper on Otto Octavius's fusion theory published in Physical Review, or some other prestigious refereed journal. Then, I want you to jump right into graduate work. You'll need to get some experience in advanced interdisciplinary theory and laboratory technique. Under my supervision, you'll undertake significant laboratory research in an uncharted area and publish the findings of your graduate thesis in a series of articles."

"But what about the prerequisites, sir?" Peter asked anxiously. "And the GRE's?"

"Don't worry about the prereques. I'll arrange a departmental waiver so that you can get credit for having taken those courses. As far as the GRE's are concerned, you'll take them the next time they're offered, which is at the end of June, I believe. Take my word for it, you'll sail through them, but I'll be available to advise you if you have any questions. In the meantime, go ahead and apply to the graduate school right after the semester ends, so that you can get started on the Master's degree program next fall."

"But how much longer will I have to stay on?" Peter asked, not wanting to extend his undergraduate career beyond four years. That's when the scholarship money would run out.

"Not one extra day. You can earn your B.S. and M.S.degrees simultaneously. This is not something that the university normally allows, but, trust me, they'll make an exception in your case."

Peter did not want to spoil the rapport he was rapidly developing with his normally gruff and demanding professor. But he had one pressing concern that overrode all others. "Dr. Connors," he said in a skeptical, but respectful tone. "You know my situation, I really need a job this Summer."

But Dr. Connors had that angle covered as well. "I have a million-dollar consulting contract with Scherrer-Bennoit." he said enticingly. "Ever hear of them?"

Peter shook his head.

"They're a boutique investment banking firm that specializes in emerging biotechnologies. They pay me to follow trends and prepare reports for their Fortune-500 clients, stuff that you've been doing for years, I understand. I could start you at a salary of twenty five thousand dollars a year. So, you see, you'll have plenty of opportunities to earn while you learn, so that you won't have to slave away in dead-end jobs that sap your strength.

Peter's head perked up. Twenty five grand was not exactly chump change. But having a salary like that meant that he would have to work a nine-to-five schedule. Unfortunately, his responsibilities as Spider-Man made that option impossible. And he would have to tell Connors why without compromising his secret.

"Professor, there is something you need to know about me," he said quietly. "I have certain . . . uh . . . community responsibilities that require me to be on call all the time and ready to respond at a moment's notice. I cannot tell you what those responsibilities are, but I can tell you that they preclude me from working a full-time job. If you like, I can work for you, freelance, like I do for the Daily Bugle. All you would have to do is pay me a fee for each report I generate. Would you be amenable to that sort of arrangement?"

Connors wondered what Peter meant by "community responsibilities." Perhaps he was attached to an EMS squad. The professor could not help but be impressed by his student's dedication to service. "Peter," he responded enthusiastically, "if that is the way you'd rather do it, then it's all right by me. We can meet to discuss the details as soon as you're through with finals."

Peter thought that this was a dismissal. He started to get up, but Connors held up his hand, signaling for him to remain seated. "Peter," he said, "everything we've talked about so far, the Master's Degree, the consulting work,will give you priceless opportunities to build up your curriculum vitae."

"To make me marketable for biotech companies?" Peter asked eagerly.

"No!" Professor Connors said emphatically. "You've got a bigger future than that. Much bigger. You need to have a different mind set. You won't be working for biotech companies— you'll be starting them. But you've got to build a rock-solid foundation first. In the Summer between your junior and senior years, you'll need to take the MCATS."

"The medical school entrance exams?" he asked.

"That's right. If you keep your grade point average up, and do well on the MCATS, then I'll be able to get you into Columbia."

"Columbia . . . medical school?" Peter was incredulous.

"That's right. . . . COLUMBIA . . . MEDICAL . . . SCHOOL." Connors replied, repeating each word slowly and with extra emphasis. Columbia University's College of Physicians and Surgeons was the top medical school in the world, according to the most recent U.S. News and World Report ranking, and had been for five years in a row. But oddly, it had never even been on Peter's radar screen. Despite all his academic accomplishments and science awards, despite his demonstrated brilliance, Peter still had trouble believing that his name and the words Columbia Medical School belonged in the same sentence.

"They have an M.D.- Ph.D. medical research program that's second to none," Connors was saying. "You'll be a much more viable candidate for that program with a Master's degree, especially if you can earn it simultaneously with your bachelor's. With that on your record, as well as your consulting experience, you'll walk in ahead of thirty thousand other applicants. You'll get your medical degree and a doctorate in an interdisciplinary biomedical specialty. And after you finish your residency, you'll be at the forefront of advances that will revolutionize medical science. You'll be directing those advances, Peter. The Nobel Prize itself will be within your grasp!"

Peter looked over at Mary Jane, who could not believe what she'd just heard. She could no longer suppress the laughter that was building up inside her. Her chest actually started to hurt as peals of laughter came ringing out of her.

"Uh . . . M.J. . . ." Peter said, his face getting red with embarrassment.

Dr. Connors looked at Peter. "Was it something I said?" he asked, wondering what the joke was.

"I'm sorry . . . Dr. Connors," Mary Jane said, pointing at Peter and trying to force the words out between bouts of mirth. "It's just . . . ha ha ha. . . before we came in here, he was so sure that you were going to flunk him. . . . And I said . . . 'he'll probably tell you to apply to medical school.' . . . I swear, that's exactly what I said . . . ha ha ha . . ."

"Is that what you thought?" Connors asked Peter in disbelief.

"Well uh . . ." Peter was feeling a bit foolish. "Given my track record this semester, I thought it might be a distinct possibility, sir."

"Well Peter, either you're very modest, which is good, or you underestimate yourself, which is not. Either way, your lady friend is quite perceptive."

My thinking exactly, said Mary Jane to herself. Peter's not the only one who hit the jackpot. Her laughter subsiding, she asked Dr. Connors, "Excuse me Professor, but, assuming that Peter does get into Columbia, how long will it take him to finish the program?"

"Seven years, including his dissertation research and oral defense," Connors answered. "And after that, he'll have to commit to a four-year residency at a teaching hospital." Then he added, only half-jokingly, "I wouldn't plan on seeing too much of him after he's accepted."

"Let me ask you this, Dr. Connors," said Peter, taking over the discussion from Mary Jane, " Just how am I going to afford Columbia Medical School without ending up with a mountain of debt at the end?" Peter knew that an Ivy League education was an extremely expensive undertaking, and that residencies paid next to nothing.

"Peter, let me assure you that you will have no problems in that regard,"Connors answered confidently. "Columbia has a huge endowment, one of the largest in the world. Every student in that program is there on full scholarship, and is given a stipend large enough to live comfortably in New York City. Plus, you'll have far moreopportunities to earn money on the side through teaching and consulting than you'll have here. The people there are the tops in their fields. Companies and governments pay millions for their time and expertise. That would work out for you quite well, since you would've already been doing it for several years."

To Peter, this scenario was starting to sound too good to be true. After so many years of bad luck and hardship, were things really beginning to turn around? Was there really a place for him at the table of the medical elites? Or was it just a beautiful, wishful dream from which he would awaken to another day of drab reality?

Professor Connors was not through yet. "Oh, and by the way, Peter, I do have considerable clout over there," he said, anticipating a question that Peter hadn't thought of asking. It was common knowledge around campus that Connors had been an army surgeon, and that he'd lost his right arm to a piece of shrapnel in Viet Nam. After two purple hearts and an honorable discharge, he returned to Columbia for his Ph.D.

Continuing, he told Peter, "I've collaborated with or critiqued almost every member of their faculty. And I know Dr. Elizabeth Ross, the new director of the M.D.-Ph.D. program. I know her personally."

Peter's head snapped up and his eyes started glowing like lanterns. "Doctor Ross? You know Dr. Betty Ross? She's over there?" He was so excited that the words tumbled out of his mouth. Almost reflexively, Mary Jane felt a twinge of jealousy at seeing Peter react that way to the mention of another woman's name. But she realized immediately that she'd overreacted. After all, this was a senior academic who was probably twice Peter's age, and probably married.

"Yes I do, Peter," Connors answered. "Dr. Ross accepted her appointment last week. She'll be taking over this Summer. But tell me, how do you know Dr. her?"

"The nanomeds," he replied. "I'd been following her work on the nanomeds since I was in high school. Both Dr. Ross and Dr Krenzler . . . I mean Banner. When I was at Midtown, I did a term paper on the nanomeds for my AP course in cellular biology. I asked them to critique it for me, and they liked it so much that they gave me letters of recommendation to Stanford. Dr. Connors, I'd give my right arm to be able to work under Dr. Ross. . ."

Mary Jane gave a little gasp.

Peter blanched, realizing too late what had just slipped out of his mouth.

"Oh, God . . . Dr. Connors, I'm sorry. . . I didn't mean that. . . ."

But Connors was not one to take offense where none was meant to be given. "It's all right Peter," he laughed. "I wouldn't expect you to follow in my footsteps that closely!" He managed to put them both at ease, despite the gaffe.

Peter started to say something, but then his voice trailed off, and an expression of sadness covered his face. Dr. Connors understood, but Mary Jane looked at him questioningly. "M.J.," he told her, "there was an accident involving the nanomeds that turned Dr. Banner into . . . into the . . . Hulk." Apparently, Bruce Banner was yet another of Peter Parker's fallen idols. To Peter, "Hulk" was just another media moniker that some idiot like Jameson had tagged Dr. Banner with. He found it so offensive and lacking in dignity that he could barely utter the word.

The mere mention of the Hulk sent shivers down Mary Jane's spine. She'd heard news reports about that rampaging green giant and was grateful that it never showed up in New York. And Peter knew the scientist who had become the Hulk? What if the Hulk wasn't lost, as everyone seemed to think? What if the Hulk ever came looking for Peter? She knew without being told that not even Spider-Man could take on that creature—there were rumors that the Hulk had once hurled a fifty-ton battle tank a distance of nearly half a mile. It could probably chew up Spider-Man and spit out the rind. Catching herself, she put the brakes on that line of thought, wondering whether she was taking on too much of Peter's pessimism.

"But what happened to Dr. Banner was the result of an abnormally high dose of gamma radiation to which he was accidentally exposed, and well as his unique physiological and psychological make-up." Dr. Connors explained. "That Dr. Banner even survived the gamma exposure was proof enough that the nanomeds worked."

"What I would like to know," Peter responded, his other passion besides Mary Jane being fired up, "is whether the nanomeds could be refined to the point where they could become self-activating, so that we wouldn't need gamma radiation at all. If we could do that, we could eliminate over ninety percent of the risk and ninety eight percent of the costs. The nanomeds could one day become standard therapy for a wide range of illnesses and injuries."

Despite her total lack of interest in science, Mary Jane found herself fascinated by being in the middle of a high-level exchange between teacher and student. What's more, both sides of the conversation were being directed at her.

"The reason Dr. Ross accepted the appointment at Columbia was that their hospital had set up the nanomed apparatus in its emergency services center, and she wanted to oversee it." Dr. Connors continued. "They've made tremendous improvements since the Banner accident. They've had a few test cases, and so far, their success rate has been one hundred percent. Their first case was a stabbing victim that Spider-Man had brought in. She was all but dead from multiple knife wounds, and the nanomeds restored her completely back to health."

Peter glanced up reflexively, trying hard to remember who Dr. Connors was talking about. He had saved thousands of people by now, and could not remember one from the next. He noticed Mary Jane giving him a you-never-told-me-that look. Fortunately, the significance of their silent exchange was lost on Professor Connors.

After another twenty minutes or so of banter back and forth with his star student, Connors glanced up at the clock on his wall. It read 11:37. "Well Peter," he said, "we wouldn't want to put poor Miss Watson here to sleep. Thank you for coming by." That was a dismissal. "Remember, if you hold up your end of the bargain, I promise you that I will move heaven and earth to get you into that institution. I do not exaggerate when I say that the future of humanity demands it. And the very best to you, Miss Watson, in your thespian career."

"Thank you Dr. Connors. It was a privilege to meet you, sir." Mary Jane responded.

Connors held out his hand. Peter grasped and shook it vigorously. He was infused with a new sense of purpose, and new goals . . . goals that were far bigger than anything he'd ever contemplated before. As a biomedical researcher, he could find cures for diseases that ravaged humanity for centuries, save lives on a global scale—he could save more lives in one week than Spider-Man could in a whole lifetime. His determination to make a success of it was there in his eyes, visible for all to see. "Thank you for your trust in me, sir. I will commit to this, and I won't let you down. I promise."

"Good, Parker." Connors said, " now take the rest of the day off. You deserve a rest, but not too long. You still have finals to prepare for!" Mary Jane nodded her head in agreement. As they got up to leave, Connors remembered a couple of important details that he'd inadvertently omitted.

"Oh, and Parker, two more things. Columbia has a strong tradition of international collaboration. They expect applicants to be fluent in at least one foreign language. That means you'll need at least four semesters."

"Yes sir," Peter said, his heart sinking. Inside he was thinking, On top of everything else? "And what's the second thing?"

The gentleness of Connors' tone belied the fact that it was a stern warning. "From now on, and especially when you get to Columbia, show up to class and don't be late! Dr. Ross won't tolerate excuses. She'll throw you out. There'll be thirty thousand people standing line waiting to take your place. Please keep that in mind."

"I understand, sir," Peter said seriously as he and Mary Jane left Connors' office. "And that won't happen, I guarantee it!"

XXXXXXXXXX

"M.J., are you hungry?" Peter asked as they walked out of Science I and back onto the main quad.

"Now that you mention it . . . I'm starved."

They found a sandwich shop just off campus, a short distance from the arch. As they sat down, Mary Jane started chuckling again, teasing Peter about how he got himself all worked up over nothing. Lowering her voice a few octaves, she did a crude imitation of Peter's doomsday predictions: "This is it— He's gonna flunk me—I'm dead . . ." she laughed. Her giggling gave way to excitement. "Oh, Peter, I can't believe you thought he was really going to fail you! . . . I mean, Jesus, did you hear what he said? . . . Columbia! Only God goes to Columbia!"

"I guess I'd be in good company, M.J." Peter joked.

"Don't be so modest!" Mary Jane giggled, finally settling down. "Hey, Tiger, I've got a suggestion for you."

"What's that?"Peter asked.

"If you have to take a foreign language, take Italian."

"Why?" he asked, somewhat puzzled.

She smiled, reached over and held his hand. "Now that you're a poet, you can serenade me with all those beautiful Italian love poems," she said lightly.

Peter thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, sure, why not?" he shrugged. He'd taken a year of Italian at Midtown, and had some familiarity with the basics. Ironically, at the time, the only reason he'd taken Italian was so that he could show Mary Jane how sophisticated he was. He still remembered how to say, I love you, and would no doubt have said it to her on a daily basis were it not for the intrusive presence of Flash Thompson.

"What did you think about what Dr. Connors said?" Mary Jane asked him, her voice taking on a more serious tone.

"About what, M.J.? He said a lot of things."

"About . . .you know . . . making a commitment?" she asked, a little nervously.

"Well, M.J., I think that commitment is very important. . ." Peter said nonchalantly. He shook his head. "I'm going to have to work very, very hard to get through that program. . ."

"Peter, I think you're missing the point," Mary Jane said, flashing her million-dollar grin and grasping his hands. Unbeknownst to her, he was missing the point deliberately. He had already made up his mind to pop the question, but did not want to do it in a deli of all places. As well, he wanted to wait until he had a ring to present her with.While they held hands, he secretly sized up the ring finger on her left hand. Jewelry shops were typically open on Sunday afternoons. Now, if he could just find a way to excuse himself without Mary Jane suspecting anything. . . .

Your wish is my command, said the spider to the man. The world abruptly slowed to a crawl. Mary Jane knew what Peter's ultra-fast head snap meant. She'd seen it before, in Ari's deli, just before Doc Ock threw a car at them. Her heart sank. No, . . . it ended up in her mouth this time.

Peter was all business now. "Stay here, don't move!" he ordered, and rushed outside. . . just in time to hear an explosion in the distance. His first thought was that it had to be a gas main break. He knew right away what he had to do. He did not hesitate. And this time, fortunately, he had his costume on.

He hurried back inside, pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and threw it down on the table in front of Mary Jane.

"M.J., I'm sorry, but I . . ." he started to say.

"It's okay, I understand," she said with a quiet smile. "Go . . . Move your ass!"

"Have lunch, and then get home. I'll call you!" he tossed back, already out the door, "And don't worry! I'll be fine." Thirty seconds later, a red-and-blue blur streaked by overhead. Mary Jane did not even bother to look for it. As she was watching the the happenings outside the window, a expression of deep concern on her face, a waitress came to take her order.

"Can I get you anything Miss?" the waitress asked, puzzled at why this woman's companion was in such a hurry to ditch her.

"Uh . . . no, thank you," she said, picking up the twenty and following Peter out the door. As she stepped outside, people were running in the direction of the explosion. She followed them, already smelling smoke. Does he really expect me not to worry about him? she asked herself, somewhat incredulously.

This one has to be a record-breaker, thought Spider-Man as he moved rapidly through the burning building, looking for people. He had arrived long before the fire department's alarms had sounded. If there was ever a time when he needed eight arms, this was it. His hunch had been right. A gas main had blown in an assisted living facility. Many of the residents were elderly and bedridden, attached to IV tubes and oxygen tanks. He had to be extraordinarily careful to keep the oxygen away from the flames, lest the tanks explode in his hands. This problem, along with the thick black smoke, was impeding his progress through the conflagration. Where the hell's EMS? he kept thinking impatiently.

Nevertheless, it was a truly heroic effort on Spider-Man's part. In less than an hour, he pulled twenty three patients and three staff members to safety. And this time, no one was left behind. When he was finished, he stood off to one side, trying to catch his breath as he surveyed the chaotic scene, and felt a quiet sense of satisfaction for a job well done. By now the fire department had arrived, and tons of water cascaded over the fire, drowning it. The EMS squad had also arrived, and were tending to the victims.

In the meantime, Mary Jane arrived on the scene, along with hundreds of others. They were kept away from the fire by police barricades. From her vantage point in the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Spider-Man just as he was bringing out the last victim, an old woman in a hospital gown. His costume was nearly black from the smoke and soot. Even the eye-pieces were partially obscured. He appeared to be stumbling, having trouble breathing. She wanted to go to him . . . to help him . . . to make sure he was all right. She started to push her way through the crowd, but then suddenly remembered that that would be the last thing he would ever want her to do—at least while he was in uniform. She looked up just in time to see him fire a webline and take off.

"Way to go Spider-Man!" she shouted as he flew overhead. She couldn't help it. The people around her took it as their cue to start clapping, and before long, the entire crowd joined in sustained applause.

To herself, imperceptible to anyone else, she added, "Way to go, Peter!"