XX. Extrication
Over the next couple of days, things seemed to settle back down into a quiet routine for Peter, even if they didn't exactly go back to normal. After all, SHIELD was still keeping his house under surveillance. And even though MJ's old house had been repaired, and the construction workers had all vanished just as quickly as they'd appeared, the house next door remained unoccupied. MJ was living with her Aunt Anna now, in Brooklyn, and Peter hadn't even seen her in three whole days. Heck, he'd barely spoken with her on the phone. He figured that the move itself, not to mention the adjustment to her new surroundings, must have been keeping her busy at all hours of the day.
But that changed when Peter and Gwen arrived at school on Monday. They got off the bus that morning, only to see MJ walking towards them across the schoolyard. Over in the parking lot, a stout, older woman behind the wheel of a U-Haul waved goodbye to MJ before throwing the cumbersome van into gear and driving off. Mary Jane ran up to Peter and planted a kiss on his lips to greet him. "Hey, Tiger. Surprised to see me?"
"Yeah, actually," said Peter with a smile. "What's going on?"
"You're never gonna believe it," said MJ. "My parents must've had some really good insurance, because my house is all fixed up—"
"We'd noticed," said Gwen.
"—and then, yesterday, Aunt Anna was evicted from her apartment."
"Evicted?" said Peter. "What for?"
MJ shrugged. "The building-owner changed the lease agreement or something. But then we figured, since I have a house, my aunt could come and live with me in Queens, and now I don't have to change schools!"
"Hey, that's great!" said Gwen, who grabbed MJ in a rough hug that almost made her drop her schoolbooks.
Peter became pensive when he heard the news. He couldn't be sure, but he sensed Nick Fury's fingerprints all over this. That wasn't to say he wasn't grateful, of course. It was just a little frightening that there were people in the world powerful enough to pull these kinds of strings—even if it was ostensibly for his and MJ's benefit.
"Hey-hey, look who's back," said Harry Osborn, who emerged from the crowd of students milling about in the yard. "MJ, I haven't seen you since, um, since the funeral. How're you holding up?"
"Oh, you know, pretty much like you'd expect," said MJ, a little glumly. "But, hey, I just found out that I get to keep coming here with all you guys, so… all things considered, it could be worse."
"Isn't that the truth," said Harry. "Listen, MJ, Gwen, if either of you need a friend to talk to about this stuff, I'm here. I just want you both to remember that."
"Oh, yeah," said Peter, "that reminds me. Harry, I never did get a chance to say thanks. For helping us fix the kitchen that one time. I'm pretty sure Aunt May was none the wiser…"
"Don't even mention it," said Harry. "But I am curious, since I had to replace a table and apparently a door, what exactly happened? You two got into a fight?"
"Oh, uh… just one of those things, I guess," said MJ. "We were having a… a heated discussion, and I got a little carried away and accidentally knocked over the table, and, like, bam, it cracked in half."
"And then I stormed out the back and, well, the door just came right off its hinges," said Pete, scratching the back of his head. "They must not make 'em like they used to."
"I guess not," said Harry. "Well, don't worry about it. I'm happy to help. Just, uh, be more careful the next time you guys decide to get feisty, okay?"
Peter and Mary Jane both reddened and shuffled their feet.
"Aw, look at that, Osborn," said Gwen. "You went and made the Watson-Parkers blush."
Harry was just about to join in Gwen's teasing, when the foursome was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat. Flash Thompson was standing nearby—in fact, he'd been close by the whole time and had heard most of the conversion—but now he was trying to get their attention.
"Yeah, Flash? What is it?" asked Harry.
"I, uh… I…" He seemed unsure of exactly what he wanted to say.
"Well, big guy?" said Gwen. "Spit it out already."
"Um, well, you know that the fall formal is coming up, soon, and, uh, Gwen—"
"Oh my God, Flash!" interrupted MJ. "I've never seen you this nervous around anyone before!" Then her eyes widened in realization. Flash likes Gwen! He really like-likes her!
Now beet red in the face, Flash just closed his eyes and powered through the rest of his question. "Gwen, do you want to go to the formal with me?"
Peter and Harry just stared at Flash, their eyes bugging out of their sockets. MJ looked like she was ready to burst into some kind of outpouring of girlish enthusiasm. As for Gwen… Gwen started laughing. And this wasn't just a little chuckle of derision or some nervous, forced titter, but real, full-on, side-splitting, gut-busting laughter. Tears came pouring down her cheeks; she doubled over; she couldn't control herself.
Flash Thompson scurried away without another word, probably more than a little crushed by her reaction.
Once Gwen finally managed to get a grip—and that took a good long while, between relapses of fitful hysterics and short breaks wherein she tried to catch her breath—she looked up to tell Flash "no," only to find that he was already gone.
"That… was actually kind of mean," said Harry.
"I think you really hurt his feelings," added Peter.
"I don't care," said Gwen. "He's a tool. He used to pick on you guys."
"Actually, now that I think about it, Flash hasn't really bullied us much at all lately," said Peter. "Not since that party at Sally's."
"Whatever," said Gwen. "I don't like bullies. First, I'll see if he can go a whole year without acting like a jerk. Then—maybe—I'll entertain the idea that he's grown up enough to hang out with."
Mary Jane was still standing there with pursed lips, looking like a bottle of shaken soda-pop waiting to explode. "Flash likes Gwen!" she finally blurted. She seemed terribly amused by this fact, but she was really the only one. Peter and Harry were more stunned, and Gwen was positively uninterested.
"Yeah, well I don't like him," she said. "He ain't my type."
"Oh, then who is?" asked MJ innocently. "A certain blond hottie you met at a party once?"
Gwen smiled. "Maybe."
"Okay, well, as engrossing as this discussion is," said Harry, "the bell's gonna ring soon and my first period's on the other side of the building. So I'll catch up with you guys after chem."
They said their goodbyes to Harry, who jogged off toward the school-building's main entrance.
"By the way," said Pete, taking Gwen aside, "Johnny did ask me for your phone number; but we were dealing with a whole bunch of crazy at the time and I didn't really get the chance to give it to him. Do you think you might want to see him again?"
Gwen just stared daggers at Peter. "The Human Torch asked you for my phone number. And you didn't give it to him."
"There was crazy going on!"
Gwen started punching Peter in the arm, repeatedly, emphasizing a word whenever she landed a blow. "Peter! When a famous, hot guy, who your friend likes a whole lot, asks you for her number, you friggin' give him her number!"
"Ow—okay, okay—ow, jeez!" Peter held up both arms to fend off Gwen's attacks. "I thought you just said you didn't like bullies!"
"This isn't bullying, it's correctional discipline," said Gwen. "Plus, I'm like your unofficial big sister, so I have the right to smack you around once in a while, if you do something extra stupid. You're a big, tough, super-hero; you can take it."
"Shh!" said Peter. "Not at school!"
At that moment, the bell rang. Mary Jane and Gwen both had the same English lit class that period, so they said goodbye to Peter and went off together. Peter only had study hall to start with that day, so he wasn't in any particular hurry to get there and decided to hang around the schoolyard for a moment longer. As the busy throngs of students funneled into the main building and the crowds filling the yard thinned out, Peter quickly found himself left alone outside the front of the school.
It was then that Peter happened to glance across the street and see someone looking directly at him—staring at him with an unwavering intensity. It was a young man, barely twenty, tall and broad-shouldered, with spiky blond hair and large gray eyes. Someone Peter knew all too well: Eddie Brock Jr.
A school bus zipped past them down the street, right between Peter and Eddie, cutting off their view of each other for only a second; and when it was gone, so was Eddie. The other side of the street was as empty as if nobody had ever been standing there.
Peter's jaw dropped. He ran out into the now-deserted street and looked around, but there was no sign of Eddie. He couldn't have just been seeing things… could he?
More disconcerting still was the fact that his spider-sense hadn't gone off. Venom didn't trigger his spider-sense, of course; but then again, Eddie and the suit had been separated during their last battle. The symbiotic sludge had been washed away, down into the sewers, hopefully never to be seen again.
As Peter stood there in the middle of the street, he somehow knew better than to hope that the old Parker luck had suddenly changed for the better.
• • •
That afternoon, Peter went to work at the Daily Bugle. He had a few photos from Spidey's routine run-ins with ordinary criminals to sell; and with the information flowing in and out of that office at all times of the day, it really was the best place to sniff around for leads on any kind of trouble you might wish to ask for. Two cases in point were the Green Goblin, who had not been seen or heard from since the night MJ's parents died; and Electro, who'd likewise vanished and had yet to reappear since his attack on the Ravencroft asylum. The attack which had freed Eddie Brock; if Peter counted him, that put no fewer than three dangerous psychopaths at the top of his to-do list. If there were any tips to follow up on that might lead Peter to finding any one of these guys, the Bugle would be the place to look—and he was particularly eager to get back at the Goblin after recent events. Peter knew that as long as the Green Goblin was still on the loose, he, and MJ, and both of their families would remain constantly on-edge, always looking over their shoulders and waiting for that next attack that might come out of nowhere at any moment.
Pretty much as soon as he arrived, Miss Brant sent him straight to J.J.'s office, where he found Mr. Jameson sitting at his desk, like usual; Robbie and Ben Urich standing by the window and holding a rapid-fire discussion over how to present one of Ben's stories; and, much to Peter's surprise and relief, someone unexpected: Colonel John Jameson, sitting comfortably in the chair opposite Jonah's desk. The colonel was wearing civilian clothes, but Peter recognized him instantly.
The elder Jameson had an unlit cigar clenched in his teeth. "Parker," he said, somehow keeping the stogie dexterously in place, "perfect. I want you to get a photo of us, just like this. I want the world to know that my son, the astronaut, is in the pink of health and ready to get back into that pilot's seat again!"
"Pop, you don't have to make such a fuss about it," said John. He turned to Peter and offered his hand. "Parker. Good to see you again. I remember you helping Doc Connors over at ESU, when I was still suffering from that weird infection."
"I'm glad to see that you're okay," said Peter. "We were all pretty worried around here when we heard that Electro attacked Ravencroft."
The colonel shrugged. "Well, I heard some loud bangs and maybe some screaming, but I never saw the guy. I guess that makes me one of the lucky ones."
On the other side of the office, Joe Robertson's voice rose to a new pitch. "I don't care, Ben! It's a good story—I'm running it!"
"It's a fluff piece!" Urich retorted. "Matt Murdock, blind lawyer, helps people pro bono? Who cares? The only reason I interviewed the guy was to ask him what he knew about the Daredevil!"
"What can I say?" said Robbie. "You do good work, even when you're trying not to!"
"Guys!" shouted Jonah, pointing at his office door. "Either zip it or take it outside!"
"Sure, boss," said Urich. As they were leaving, he said to Robbie, "I'll take this to Hoffman!"
"I'm the city editor!" snapped Robbie. "I outrank Hoffman!"
Once they were gone, Colonel Jameson turned back to Peter and said, "Say, the next time you see Doc Connors, can you pass along my thanks? After all, I never would've gotten better if not for him. And Spider-Man."
"Menace," grumbled Jonah under his breath, looking around his desk for a light for his cigar.
"Sorry, Colonel," said Peter. "Curt and Martha Connors, they aren't at ESU anymore. The last I heard, they took a new job together at a lab somewhere in Florida."
"That's a shame," said John. "I still have at least a million questions to ask about what happened to me. Did the doc ever figure out how those, uh, 'space-spores' got inside the shuttle?"
"I'd like to know that too!" said J.J., who was now happily puffing on a Cuban cancer-stick.
"It's still a mystery," said Peter with a shrug. "I remember that some guys from NASA came by the lab once and dropped off a whole bunch of those spores in canisters, so that Doc Connors would have plenty of samples to study. They said they'd vacuumed them out from all over the shuttle, inside and outside. The little buggers even survived reentry on the heat-shield!"
Colonel Jameson let out a low whistle. "Wow. And all it took to kill them off was a couple hundred volts of electricity. I really am lucky."
"Not luck, my boy!" said J.J. "Guts! Guts, willpower, and raw nerve! You're a Jameson; you're made of tougher stuff! …Parker! How come you're still standing there, chit-chatting? I told you to take a photo!"
Peter took out his camera and looked at Colonel Jameson, who smiled and nodded his consent. So Peter lined up his shot… and then he paused, peeked out from behind his camera at J.J., and asked, "Standard freelance fee?"
"Parker…" growled Jameson in a low, dangerous voice.
"Kidding! Just kidding…" said Peter. He quickly snapped the picture, exchanged a few more polite words with the colonel, and then extricated himself from Jonah's office.
The very moment he was back out on the newsroom floor, though, he was accosted by Ned Leeds. "Hey, Pete. Do you mind if I ask you a few quick questions?"
Peter narrowed his eyes at Ned. "What about?"
"Well, ever since J.J. sent us out on the Oscorp story, I've been handling all the Green-Goblin-related stories, and I'd hoped that you might—"
"No," said Peter sharply.
"No?" repeated Ned. "I just wanted to pick your brain about his last attack—"
Peter was suddenly incensed. "I can't believe you'd even ask that! Two people I've known since I was little—my next-door neighbors, my girlfriend's parents—they died!"
Peter's raised voice drew the attention of the staff-writers sitting at all of the surrounding desks. Ned put up his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, whoa, I didn't mean anything personal, Parker! It's my job to follow up with witnesses!"
"Yeah, well I wasn't there," said Peter. "Sorry. Talk to somebody else." His anger boiled down to a steady simmer. He pushed his way past Leeds and stormed out of the office, with a few of the Bugle staffers shaking their heads and watching the young photographer leave with expressions of sympathy and shock etched on their faces.
• • •
On the eighty-seventh floor of Fisk Tower, the elevator doors slid open, and out stepped Hammerhead. Following behind him was an older man with messy, graying hair, who wore a brown tweed suit and carried a worn old leather satchel. This was Spencer Smythe, a man who looked as if he'd spent his whole life toiling under the thumb of a series of demanding employers and now had only enough energy left in him to maintain an outward semblance of dignity.
Wilson Fisk remained seated at his desk, hands clasped together. Once Smythe was past the armed guards (who, as always, stood silently at the elevator door and frisked anyone coming through it) and standing before him, Fisk said, "Mr. Smythe. How good of you to come on such short notice."
Smythe cast a sidelong glance at Hammerhead, who remained standing beside him, watching him. "Your underling didn't exactly give me a choice in the matter."
Fisk smirked. "Recriminations, Smythe? You won't feel that way once you've heard my proposal. The project I have in mind could make you a very rich man."
Smythe quirked an eyebrow and looked skeptically at the Kingpin. "If some of the rumors I've heard lately are true, I'm not sure I want to be involved in one of your projects."
"Lies, spread by my enemies to discredit me," said Fisk, rising from his desk. He turned his back on Smythe and looked out the large office window, gazing at the cityscape spread out before him. "Soon, though, this desperate hearsay will be of no consequence. The world will see that I'm a law-abiding citizen—that I care deeply about the good of this city—my city—once my newest initiative is underway."
He turned to face Smythe again and said, "New York is overrun with costumed crooks, and vigilantes taking the law into their own hands. Both are madmen, equally dangerous to the likes of you and me and ordinary citizens. I intend to put a stop to it."
Now Spencer Smythe really was curious. "How?"
"Eventually, I mean to build up a private security force which can be licensed to the city at cost, better equipped than the police to handle the threat of so-called 'super-villains'. But in order to lend this idea some credibility, I must do something extraordinary first. Something… attention-getting. And this is where you come in."
"What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Fisk?"
"As you may know, the most elusive of all these costumed lunatics is the vigilante called Spider-Man. As a… favor for the police, I would like him captured and unmasked. And I believe that with your genius in the field of robotics, you're just the man to undertake the job."
Smythe fell silent as he pondered Fisk's words.
"Well, Smythe? It goes without saying that I'll pay you handsomely—"
"I'd expect nothing less, Mr. Fisk. But… I don't want money, not really."
"Well, then… what do you want?" A look of genuine curiosity danced across the Kingpin's face.
"Knowing you, you've likely already deduced my answer," said Smythe. "My son, Alistair… he suffers from a rare nerve-disease which has left him wheelchair-bound. If I agree to work for you, then—"
"Consider it done," said Fisk. "I already donate considerable sums each year to medical research. Work for me, and all of it, every last penny, will go into research aimed at curing your boy."
"Well, then," said Smythe, shaking hands with Fisk, "how can I possibly refuse?"
"How, indeed?" said Fisk.
With that, Hammerhead showed Smythe to the elevator, and the aged inventor departed. Hammerhead didn't escort him all the way out, though. Instead, he turned and went back over to the Kingpin. "Well, boss," he asked, "do you think the old man can really pull it off?"
"Never underestimate what a man can accomplish, once properly motivated," said Fisk. "Which reminds me… if we're going to be bankrolling Smythe, we're going to need to increase our funding. Place a call to Anastasia Hardy, employing the usual precautions." By "precautions", Fisk meant an untraceable burner-phone and an electronic voice-changer. "Inform Mrs. Hardy that we are aware of the fact she has been embezzling from her own Hardy Foundation in order meet our past demands; and as a consequence of that, the price of our continued silence has doubled."
"Heh-heh," chuckled Hammerhead, "double the dirty deeds, double the blackmail, eh? This is why I love working for you, Kingpin. It's like I learn something new every day."