VI. Anticipation

J. Jonah Jameson? If I were a shrink, I could write a book. He's the editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle, which makes him my boss at my other job: you know, the one that I hold because it actually helps pay the bills. Taking pictures of myself as Spider-Man… is that really ethical? I try not to lie awake at night and worry about that. I guess if there's a demand, and I have the supply, fair's fair. But if J.J. ever found out who I was… like I said, I try not to think about it.

For what it's worth, underneath it all, Jameson is a decent man. He isn't nice, or generous, but I've got to give him credit for guts. He really wants to tell people the truth, even if he gets it wrong in his headlines sometimes. Even if his prejudices get in the way of his better judgment, or he prints something that hurts the people around him. His intention is to tell people the truth, and he has the courage to see it through.

In a way, I can't blame the man. Back when he was just starting out in journalism, he helped Foswell break the Silvermane story. Manfredi told Jameson to back off, even threatened his family, but Jameson stuck to his guns and printed the story anyway. Silvermane retaliated by having someone close to Jameson killed. I'm still not clear on all of the details. But I do remember hearing J.J. say once that it was because of that hit man that he hates people in masks. Even the ones who try to be good guys, go figure.

Oh, well. I have my reasons for keeping my mask on.

But that's not the only tragedy in J.J.'s life, not by a long shot. His son, the astronaut, Colonel John Jameson… he isn't doing too well. This is kind of a wacky story, but, bear with me on this. During his last shuttle mission, Col. Jameson came down with some kind of… I don't know, radiation sickness, or space virus, or something. Maybe it really was a virus. I mean, freaking aliens attacked New York last year, and one of the guys on our side, Thor, he's from another planet too, right? So we know there's life out there. We're not alone in the universe. Maybe the colonel caught a bug up there somehow. Who knows?

Scary thought: maybe it even came from wherever those Chitauri guys came from. Maybe it followed them through that portal they opened over New York last year.

Anyway, when John came back down to earth, something was different. He had super strength, and he was getting bigger. I mean huge, like ten, twelve feet tall. And denser: his mass was somehow increasing even faster than his size. I'm no physicist, so I can't even imagine how that would begin to work, but I saw it with my own eyes. J.J. and his son, they came to Doc Connors' lab for help. Connors found something, they looked like spores, in the colonel's bloodstream. We figured this was what was causing his problem. And while Doc Connors worked on a way to kill the little buggers off, they put Colonel Jameson in this fancy power-suit to keep his super strength in check. I mean, he was really strong, strong enough that he couldn't control it on his own.

So while Doc Connors worked on a cure, J.J. suggested that his son try and be a super-hero. Maybe even take down Spider-Man. John liked the idea and started calling himself… wait for it… Colonel Jupiter. That was red flag number one that the spores were making him kind of crazy. It just got worse from there. He got mean. Berserk even. Like a wild animal. He could have given Sergei Kravenoff a run for his money. Eventually, Doc Connors figured out that electricity could kill the spores, and so I zapped the colonel pretty good with a live conduit during one of our little super-powered throw-downs.

John's powers went away, but so did his marbles. Now he's in Ravencroft, a few doors down from Eddie Brock, muttering to himself about how he needs to get "his power" back. And J.J. totally blames me. On this one, I have to admit that J.J. kind of has a point.

• • •

There was something about the organized chaos of the Daily Bugle office that Peter rather liked. Perhaps it was the fact that he could disappear into the hustle and bustle and go about unnoticed, overhearing all kinds of interesting things about the latest news in the city. Then again, perhaps it was something a bit loftier: here was a well-oiled machine dedicated to getting the truth out to the masses. Some of it was sensationalized, some of it was just plain wrong, but the Bugle was still capable of breaking big stories, exposing very bad people and their very bad deeds to the bright light of day. Peter appreciated that.

"Parker!" barked J. Jonah Jameson from the door of his office. "What is this, an art museum? I don't pay you to stand around staring at the walls! Get in here!"

"Sir," said Ted Hoffman, Jonah's awkward, bespectacled assistant. "You're still in a meeting with Ben Urich. You were going to talk to Parker after—"

"Right, right, right. Parker: stand there, do nothing, don't move until I call you." Jonah then marched out of his office onto the floor where a couple dozen staff writers plugged away at computers. Hoffman and Urich followed behind him.

"I'm telling you, J.J., this is the story—" Ben had an armful of notebooks in his arms, a laptop balanced upon these. He wore his customary cokebottle-frame glasses and Donegal tweed cap (turned backwards so that it looked kind of like a beret).

"Last week, Doc Ock was 'the story'," countered Jameson, "and I agreed with you. I still agree with last-week-you: stay on that. Ongoing manhunt for escaped, super-powered lunatic."

"And I'm trying to explain that this is the same story. Listen." Urich threw the stack of notebooks onto some poor writer's desk, causing that staffer to look up in annoyance. Neither Urich nor Jameson paid her any attention. Urich was too busy opening up the laptop to show a file to Jonah. "Look. Word on the street is, Octavius is trying to carve out a little niche for himself in between Tombstone's territory and Foswell's—"

"There is no proof that either of them is involved in any sort of criminal—!" started J.J., but Urich kept going.

"And now we have this new guy in Hell's Kitchen, this so-called 'Kingpin' that everyone is flocking too, mostly old hoods who used to work for Silvermane—I'm telling you, Jonah, this is it. Doc Ock is connected to all of this, somehow, and I just need to find the missing link!"

"Missing link," sneered Jameson. "You're the 'missing link', Ben! I'm starting to wonder if I haven't hired a cave man instead of a reporter! What say we can the conspiracy theories and—"

"Fine!" shouted Urich. "You want your Doc Ock story? I'll just follow the evidence. Mark my words, Jonah: it's all going to tie together in the end!"

"Bring me a story—with some proof this time!—and we'll see!" shouted J.J. back with equal vigor. Urich stormed off, and Jameson turned fiery eyes on Peter. "Parker! My office! Now!"

Seconds later, that's where Parker was. "I have some more Spider—"

"Miss Brant can handle that," said J.J., cutting Peter off. "You go to school with Robbie's son, Rand?"

"Uh, yeah," affirmed Peter. In fact, he had last seen Rand Robertson at the party the other night, hanging out with Kong and the other jocks.

"And with Harry Osborn," continued J.J. It was more of a statement than a question.

"We've been friends since junior high," said Peter.

"Did you know Norman Osborn?"

Peter paused while he considered what to say. "Sort of. I mean, we met a few times. He always encouraged me to keep studying science. Just before he, uh, died, he said he wanted to help me out with that, be kind of a mentor—as a 'thank you' for being a friend to Harry."

Jameson nodded along as he listed to Peter. That might just have been the longest he'd ever let Parker ramble without cutting him off. "Well, something fishy is going on with Oscorp. I just received an email today, from Norman Osborn's former assistant, that they're going to hold a press conference sometime next week. To announce new management for the company or something." Peter was about to ask a question, but J.J. waived it off. "The point is, with all this crazy talk flying around about Osborn being a masked wacko, this stinks. So I'm sending Ned Leeds to cover the story, and I want you there taking pictures. You be there, Parker, no matter what. Understand?"

"Yes sir—"

"And if you can talk to your little friend Harry and maybe get the inside scoop, that's even better. Any leads that you can give to Leeds, you point him in the right direction and we'll get to the bottom of this. Good boy. Now get out of here. Say, why didn't you bring me any Spider-Man photos today?"

Peter lamely pulled a stack of pictures out of his bag. "You just said that Miss Brant could—"

J.J. impatiently indicated the door. Peter got the message and vacated the office posthaste.

• • •

The lights were dimmed within Oscorp's main biochemical R&D complex. Miles Warren knew his way through these hallways well enough, though. He had assisted Norman Osborn with many of his more delicate experiments, right here within these very walls; at least, that had been the case once he'd been hired to replace Otto Octavius in that capacity. Osborn needed someone with Warren's expertise to keep his little freak-factory going, so that they could manufacture more super-powered mercenaries and auction them off to the highest bidder.

Since the experiments were highly illegal, that meant that the pool of bidders was usually restricted to a small list of well-to-do ne'er-do-wells, men like Frederick Foswell and L. Thompson Lincoln and Silvio Manfredi. Then there were a few newcomers on the scene: Otto Octavius himself, for one, since he'd embraced his new identity as Doctor Octopus; this mysterious Kingpin character for another, always operating through an intermediary; and then there was Roderick Kingsley, who (as far as anyone knew) really was just a legitimate businessman. That made Warren suspicious. Perhaps law enforcement, or worse, SHIELD, had gotten their hooks into him and they were using him as a mole. If so, that was a problem that Osborn would have to take care of quickly.

Then again, perhaps Kingsley was just an eccentric millionaire who wanted super-powered bodyguards and was willing to go through black market channels to get them. Stranger things had happened.

Warren crept into the test-chamber and called out, "Norman? Are you here?"

"Yes, Miles. And I've brought a guest." Norman Osborn stepped out of the shadows, into a narrow column of light emanating from a single lit bulb in the middle of the ceiling. And next to him, with four metal arms glistening as they emerged from the shadows, opaque red lenses concealing his burned-out eyes, appeared Otto Octavius.

"What is this?" asked Warren suspiciously. He was startled enough that he took an involuntary step back.

"Worry not, good doctor," said Octavius. His arms remained still; he made no move to restrain or accost Warren. "My presence here is in the capacity of interested businessman, not intellectual laborer. I have no interest in replacing you as Osborn's scientific peon."

"Now, now, Otto, be nice," chided Osborn. "We need Dr. Warren's help."

"I would imagine so, or else I wouldn't have been called here," sniffed Warren, removing his spectacles and wiping them nervously on his coat. "Forgive me, though, if I'm still a little puzzled by the presence of Doctor Octopus. I thought you two hated each other."

"Well, I'll admit that in the past, our personalities… clashed," said Osborn smoothly. "I detest weakness, and Otto used to be such a sniveling little underling. Obviously, he's changed all that."

"Yes, and back when I worked for Norman, he was such an arrogant, domineering, controlling, imperious—ahem, but I digress." Octavius cleared his throat and calmed himself before continuing. "We're civilized men; recriminations don't become us. Do forgive me. For a long time, I blamed Norman for my 'accident', until I realized what a blessing-in-disguise it truly was."

"I see," said Warren. "So you've put all of your little differences aside, and now you're, what? Partners? Equals?"

"Well, partners, at least," said Osborn. "We're united by a common bond. A common hatred for a common foe."

"The Spider-Man," said Warren. It wasn't a question.

"Indeed," said Octavius. "He is formidable; but not invulnerable. I daresay with our pooled acumen, we can contrive a design to eliminate the interloping arachnid."

Warren nodded. "Well, as long as it furthers my own research, I have no objections. What do you need from me?"

Osborn smiled. "I seem to remember a minor note on your resume, doctor, which said that in addition to genetics, you had some expertise in the area of hypnosis."

"That's correct."

"Well," said Osborn, "that's convenient. You see, before I can resume my place in the public eye as head of Oscorp, I need to demonstrate to the world that I'm not the Green Goblin. And that's a problem."

"I can see how it might be a bit of a poser, yes," said Miles.

"But with your help, Miles, I think we can create for ourselves a new goblin, someone to assume the villainous identity entirely. Someone who believes he really was the Green Goblin all along—"

"Thereby exonerating you, the moment that the two of you are seen in public together," concluded Warren. "That shouldn't be too difficult. But why not simply hire someone to take the fall?"

"Too messy," said Osborn. "Too easy to trace. Too great a chance that the plan could go wrong if the new goblin is caught."

"This way, all suspicion directed at Norman is utterly and eternally quelled," said Octavius. "Further, it presents me with a unique opportunity to, eh, eliminate some troublesome competition in the world of organized illicit activity. To that end, I've proposed an ideal candidate for our auxiliary miscreant, and—"

"Spare us the purple prose, Otto, and get to the point," said Norman.

"Ah, yes, forgive me my loquaciousness. In short, I've taken it upon myself to create a fiefdom in New York's criminal underbelly. I find myself in conflict with several rivals: Silvermane. The Kingpin. The Big Man. I've deduced that there is some connection between one of these so-called crime-bosses and the manufacturing tycoon, Roderick Kingsley. He is our perfect, in the vernacular, 'fall guy'."

"Hm," said Warren, rubbing his chin. "A wealthy businessman with plenty of resources and some shady connections… yes, it is perfect. Assuming we can convince the world that a perfume tycoon is a super-villain."

"Oh, we won't have to," said Norman. "You see, Miles, thanks to your talents, Kingsley will do the convincing for us."

• • •

The following day, Peter went to meet Mary Jane for lunch in the yard outside Midtown High, as per usual. He was pleasantly surprised to find Gwen and Harry both present, chatting amicably with MJ. Peter, tray of horrible cafeteria Salisbury steak in hand, plopped down on the bleachers. "Hey guys."

Everyone looked up at Peter, but nobody said anything for a long moment.

"Ah," said Peter, "awkward silence. How I've missed you, my old friend."

MJ nudged Harry with her elbow, and Gwen said, "Cowboy up already, Osborn."

Harry sighed. "Pete… listen, I guess I owe you an apology. I've already said this to MJ, but… I was a little jealous of you two, and I maybe didn't handle it in the best way."

"Really?" said Peter. "I'd barely noticed."

"Be serious!" said Harry, tossing a french fry at Peter. "I'm trying to be sincere over here!"

"Okay, okay," chuckled Pete. "Continue."

"I just wanted to work through… all of my issues on my own. Stay out of your way, keep the drama to a minimum." Harry leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "I mean, let's face it, you two have been totally in love with each other since before we even met—"

"Practically married," chimed in Gwen.

"You stop," said MJ with a roll of her eyes.

"—and I know I never really stood a chance. S'okay, though," added Harry. "Plenty of fish in the sea."

"Would we be talking about Liz?" asked Pete.

"We might be," grinned Harry. "Maybe. We'll have to see about that. So… are we good?"

"Yeah," said Peter. "We're good. Although…"

Harry became intrigued. "Although…?"

"If, say, you wanted to make it up to me… you know, for giving all of us the silent treatment for a few weeks… I did have a favor to ask."

"Name it."

"Well," said Pete, "J.J. wants me to help cover this Oscorp story. Something about a press conference and new management—"

"Yeah, I think I remember Menken mentioning that once or twice," said Harry. "You want to score a little inside exclusive for the Bugle? I can definitely set you up with that. No problem at all, buddy."

"Great," said Peter. "Thanks, Harry."

"Don't mention it. In fact," he added, "now that you bring it up, there's supposed to be some kind of after-party following the conference, at the mansion." (It was understood by all present that when Harry spoke of "the mansion", he meant "my enormous house, lately inherited from my deceased father".) "A real high-society snooze-fest. I'd love it if you could all be there to liven things up."

"Oh my God, are you serious?" asked MJ. "Yes, definitely! Right, Peter?"

"Sure," said Pete with a nod.

Suddenly, all eyes fell on Gwen Stacy. "Uh… maybe," she said. "It all kind of depends on my dad. Considering that I am still grounded for… what time is it now?"

"Twelve thirty," supplied Peter, happy to lob a softball at a fellow aspiring comedian.

"—Oh, then it's only another hundred and fifty years," she finished.

I do love me the classics, thought Peter.

"Gimme your address," said Harry to Gwen.

"My what?"

"Your address. To your house. I'll take care of it."

Gwen looked askance at Harry. "You'll take care of my being grounded?"

"We Osborns are used to getting what we want. I want to see my friends at this party. So I'll take care of it."

Gwen shrugged. "All right… but you haven't met my dad. He's pretty good at getting his way too."

"Trust me," said Harry. "And remember, this is going to be all formal and stuff, so dress up. Pete, we might have to rent you a tux."

MJ and Gwen suddenly fixed predatory stares on Peter. He groaned aloud and let his head sink into his hands. What had he just gotten himself into?