XXVII. Deception

The following evening, Anastasia Hardy waited pensively at home. Felicia was there as well; last night, she'd stealthily followed her mother home, watching over her like a guardian angel in a cat-suit. Now she wondered just what exactly it was that her mother was waiting for.

"You really shouldn't be here," said Anastasia at last.

"Whatever for, mother?" asked Felicia.

Mrs. Hardy poured herself another drink. "In a short while, someone's going to arrive. Someone who works for very bad people—"

"You don't have to dance around it with me," said Felicia earnestly. "I know everything."

"You… what?"

"I know that we've been blackmailed. And that Spider-Man found out that it was the Kingpin behind it all."

"And how could you possibly know all that?!" asked Anastasia.

"Well, mother…" began Felicia, "maybe you ought to sit down, since this might come as kind of a shock…"

Then the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hardy never found out what Felicia had been prepared to confess. "Just… stay out of sight," she instructed. She went over to the front door, opened it, and froze in place, pale as a sheet—for before her stood a ghost. The tumbler of whiskey in her hand fell to the floor and shattered.

Felicia craned her neck to see around her mother. There was a man in the doorway. He wore an expensive, dark blue suit and carried a briefcase and umbrella. His hair was salt-and-pepper, cropped short, and he had a thick moustache that was all white. And his eyes… they were the same bright blue as Felicia's. Her mother couldn't speak, but Felicia could, and she could hardly believe what she was saying. "…Daddy?!"

For there, standing in their doorway, was none other than Anastasia's husband—her late husband—the esteemed Mr. J. Walter Hardy, Jr.

"Ana, darling, there isn't time," he said, pushing his way into the room. "I wish that I could tell you more, but there are dangerous men who will be here soon. I have to keep them from getting what they want; it's a matter of national security!"

"I… I think I'm going to faint," mumbled Anastasia.

Walter caught his wife and said gently, "Ana, please. The safe—my old papers. You still have them, don't you? It's important."

"I… yes… no!" said Anastasia, suddenly coming to her senses and hitting Walter on the arm. "No, you can't just come back into our lives without… an explanation, or something! Walter, we buried a body! We mourned you! It's been five years—where have you been all this time?!"

Before answering, Walter walked over to his daughter. "Felicia… I almost can't believe my eyes. You must be seventeen now…"

"Daddy," she said again, embracing him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. While they held each other, Walter said to Ana, "I've been in protectively custody, with SHIELD. Because I know a very important secret that the government can't let out. And they're right; the fate of the world depends on it."

"What could possibly be so important?" asked Anastasia.

"That's… my burden alone," said Walter. "Now, please, Ana, before we're out of time."

Anastasia nodded and led Walter into their bedroom. She moved aside a painting on the wall, revealing a safe, which she opened. Walter Hardy dove into the contents, going through old stacks of papers and file-folders. At last, he found an old portfolio with a label in red ink—"confidential"—stamped across it. Eagerly, he opened the portfolio. The first page was an old mimeograph facsimile of typewriter text—it read, "The Stark–Erskine Telegraphs, Transcripts as Intercepted by J.H." There was also a compact disc taped to the inside front-cover of the folder; Walter tore this free from the tape and pocketed it. He put the portfolio under his arm and said, "Now, when the Kingpin's men get here, let them look through the safe and take whatever they want. It should be all right now."

Anastasia followed Walter back into living-room. "But Walter, what will you do now? Where will you go?"

"Back into hiding," said Walter. "I have no choice; I can't get you involved in this, it would put your lives in danger!"

"Let me come with you, Daddy!" said Felicia. "You taught me everything I know—you know that I could handle it. I could help you!"

"Oh, Felicia," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I don't want this kind of life for you. You deserve so much more, my little princess…" He hugged her again, and as he did so, she stiffened.

"What did you call me?" she said coldly.

"What do you mean?" asked Walter.

"I mean, you've never called me princess," said Felicia, pushing Walter away. "You taught me everything—all of your old secrets! You were the Cat, the world's greatest burglar—and I was your little kitten!" She stared at the man before her, turning the past few minutes' events over in her head. "In fact, if you wanted to get into mother's safe, even without the combination, you could have cracked it yourself in the night and we'd never have even known you were here!"

"What are you saying, Felicia?" asked Anastasia.

"I'm saying, that's not my daddy! He's an impostor!"

Walter Hardy turned to run for the door, but Felicia was faster—and stronger. She grabbed for his arm. The file-folder fell to the floor, spilling papers everywhere. "There aren't any other men coming, are there?" accused Felicia. "You're working for the Kingpin!"

"Get off, sooka!" said Walter, his voice now completely different, and with a thick Russian accent to boot. He slipped between Felicia's arms, but she clawed at his head—and a rubber mask came away, revealing a featureless white face underneath, razed flat by uncounted instances of plastic surgery.

Felicia gasped. "You're the Chameleon!" she cried.

With a quick "Dasvidanya!" he ran for the door and disappeared, leaving two very stunned women behind.

• • •

A short while later, the Chameleon strode into Wilson Fisk's office.

"Dmitri," said Fisk. "I trust you have what I asked for?"

"Da, although the girl was sharp enough to see through my disguise," said Chameleon. He pulled the CD out of his coat pocket and tossed it lightly onto the Kingpin's desk. "I was actually quite impressed with her."

"That will be all… for now," said Fisk. "Your payment has already been wired."

"Bolshoe spasibo," said Chameleon, although his tone was a bit too sarcastic to warrant the literal meaning of the phrase, thank you so very much.

Once the Chameleon had gone, Fisk turned to the computer on his desk and inserted the disk. It contained mostly digital video footage—diary recordings made by the late J. Walter Hardy, Jr., better known to the Kingpin as the Cat. Here it was, then. All the secrets of the world's greatest cat-burglar… and he was documenting himself as he imparted all of this great knowledge—some of it gleaned over the course of his own lifetime and some of it passed down to him from his own father, John Hardy, Sr.—to his heir, his daughter, his little kitten, Felicia.

None of that was of any interest to Wilson Fisk.

He spent the next couple of hours combing assiduously through the files. There had to be something there—some hint, some clue as to what had really happened. A lot of it was video of Walter putting a young Felicia—ten, eleven, eventually twelve years old—through all kinds of training: obstacle courses, gymnastics, martial arts. The girl showed marked improvements in all areas after the first few months, but then, around the time she turned twelve, her performance spiked. She became incredible—almost a master of stealth and fighting, overnight.

And it was in the last file that he found it. Walter Hardy faced the camera—the background was all in shadows, so there was no way to identify just where it was that he had been recording this—and he spoke frankly. "Felicia, my dear, my little kitten, I've made this diary for you—because I fear that I won't always be around to tell you what you need to know. In fact, I'm sure of it; there are men who want me dead, and I'm telling you this so that someday, you'll know why.

"It all began with my father, your grandfather. His real name was Jack Hardesky—he only changed it to John Hardy after he 'struck it rich', made that last big score and retried from the game. A new name to make himself respectable, I guess. There wouldn't be much to tell if he'd just been a great burglar who retired rich, but he was also a patriot. During World War II, he worked for the Allies as a double agent, mainly against HYDRA and the Red Skull.

"And one day, he discovered HYDRA agents here in the United States, agents who were spying on a very important experiment. This was when Dr. Abraham Erskine and Howard Stark successfully developed their super-soldier serum, the drug which turned scrawny little Steve Rogers into Captain America! And the HYDRA agents stole the formula. My father managed to intercept their communiqués, though, and he had a photographic memory. He memorized precisely where and when HYDRA would try to replicate the formula, to test it… and then, once they did so, he broke in and stole a sample of the drug, and then he sabotaged the formula and destroyed their lab.

"This finished drug—the last known remaining sample of the original Erskine super-soldier serum—has been handed down to me. And, Felicia, I need to tell you where I've hidden it…"

The Kingpin leaned forward eagerly. At long last, this was it! Soon, he would have the power to make an army of super-soldiers, and then New York's so-called super-heroes would be of no consequence to him! He and his empire of crime would become invincible!

"…It was too dangerous to keep. And so I had to put it somewhere safe, where it could never fall into the wrong hands. So I used it—on you, kitten. You're meant for greater things than I ever was. Don't be a mere thief; don't waste your life as I have. I've given you the power to be a hero—"

The recording came to an abrupt end when the Kingpin's fist smashed into his computer, destroying the screen. He stood up, seething with rage, and threw his enormous desk twenty feet across the room. "NO!" he shouted. "I was so close! SO CLOSE!"

• • •

A few days later, a resplendent funeral was held for the late Norman Osborn. Many of New York's influential elite were there: J. Jonah Jameson, Wilson Fisk, Anastasia Hardy, Sam Bullit, Roderick Kingsley. Harry Osborn's closest friends were also in attendance. Felicia Hardy came with her mother, and there were Peter and Mary Jane and Gwen, Aunt May and Aunt Anna, Liz and Flash and Kong. Mr. Osborn's assistant, Donald Menken, was once again set to take over Oscorp until Harry turned eighteen, which would be in about a year's time.

This time around, there was much rumor and speculation as to how Norman Osborn had died—just about everybody suspected that he'd finally been murdered by the Green Goblin, for reasons unknown to the world a large—but there was no question as to the fact of his death. That was certain now: there was a body to bury this time. And Peter and MJ were true to their word: they kept the truth a secret between themselves.

Harry Osborn didn't really know what to think. Scarlet Spider had apologized that night; she'd said that the Green Goblin had killed Norman Osborn, and that she'd failed to save him. Was that true? Was the goblin responsible, or was Scarlet Spider? He didn't know. But he hated them both. Pretty much anyone who wore a mask and had "goblin" or "spider" in their name was now persona non grata with Harry Osborn.

During the wake, as the men and women of New York City's upper crust walked by the open casket to pay their final respects to Norman Osborn, nobody noticed when Roderick Kingsley leaned in close and whispered, "I win, you stupid son of a bitch."

• • •

After the burial, Harry didn't talk much. Peter and the girls watched as he was led to the back of a limousine. He climbed in and was driven away.

"That's it," said Gwen. She, MJ, and Peter were all heading back to the parking lot; soon May and Anna would drive them home.

"What's it?" asked MJ.

"That stupid joke I made a while back," said Gwen. "About how we could start an orphans' club. Me and Pete, then you, and now Harry too. This is so messed up…"

"Actually, there's something else we haven't told you yet," said Peter. "And I'm not sure if—"

"Harry's dad really was the Green Goblin, wasn't he?" said Gwen.

Peter and MJ looked at Gwen, astonished.

"What? I'm a smart girl, I can put two and two together. And you don't want to tell Harry; that's fine, I get that."

"That's the thing," said Peter. "I'm not sure we should keep it a secret. Maybe Harry deserves to know the truth."

"Wouldn't that just cause him more pain?" asked MJ. "I wouldn't want to know if my dad was a super-villain."

"Your dad already acted like one most of the time," Peter pointed out. "But what if Harry finds out on his own, and he, like, gets all hell-bent on revenge and stuff?"

"Harry? Bent on revenge? That doesn't sound like him," said MJ.

"Not the Harry we know. But he has used the Oscorp performance enhancers before—heck, we thought that Harry might even be the Green Goblin, when he was drugging himself. What if he tries the 00Z again? He might not even remember if he does it!"

Gwen actually looked afraid for a moment. MJ shuddered and then said, "No—no, not Harry, he couldn't."

Before Peter could reply, Anna Watson shouted from the car that it was time to go. And so Peter, Gwen, and MJ all raced over and piled into the backseat for the drive back to Forest Hills, Queens.

• • •

A couple of days later, Peter and Gwen took the bus across town, to the campus of Empire State University. It was to be Gwen's first day on the job as the new intern in the genetics lab. Their conversation had been light the whole way there. As they were getting off the bus and walking over to the lab, Peter asked, "So, the fall dance is coming up. You gonna swallow your pride and actually go?"

"Haven't decided," said Gwen. "I s'pose you're going with MJ."

"Yep," said Pete. "You could ask Harry—that is, if he hasn't asked Liz yet."

"Mr. 'I'll keep you in mind as an option'? Yeah, I don't think so," said Gwen.

"And then there's Flash…" said Peter, letting his voice trail off suggestively.

Gwen shrugged. "Who knows? If he's got the guts to ask again, I might just give the big lunkhead a chance this time."

"Really?"

"Well… he's gotten better," said Gwen.

"What about Johnny Storm?" asked Peter.

"Yeah, that would work," said Gwen with a nod. "You'd better give him my number the next time you see him."

"Okay, okay…"

They went inside, and there, in the main laboratory, were the Doctors Curtis and Martha Connors, unpacking most of their old paperwork and hauling it into their old offices. Debra Whitman was there as well, directing a couple of jumpsuited workmen who were unloading crates with more sensitive laboratory apparatus.

"Doc Connors!" said Peter, running up and shaking Curt's hand. "Doctor Connors," he said more formally, greeting Martha.

"Peter!" said Curt. "It's good to see you again! And this must be Gwen Stacy, our new high school intern. I hear tell you're a regular chemistry savant."

Gwen turned to Pete and said, "I like him already!"

"Oh, I do not believe this!" shouted Martha suddenly. "Dr. Warren made a mess of everything—the computers, the equipment, the supplies—it's all disorganized, and half of it is missing!"

"Actually, since you've been gone, there've been a couple of break-ins…" said Peter.

"Yes, we'd heard about that," said Curt. "I'm told that most of our tissue-samples were stolen. We're going to have a lot of work to do, to replace what was lost and bring things back up to speed around here."

"I'll start working on a schedule," said Martha, who went off to her office.

"Hey," said Gwen, pointing over at the crates, "who's Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome?"

As the workmen left the last crate in the lab and wheeled the dollies away, Debra started opening the largest of the boxes. A man in his early twenties, with long, black hair, olive skin, and attractive features came up behind her and started to help her with the unpacking. As they chatted, Debra blushed and the young man laughed. Peter couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could tell that the man spoke English with a hint of an Eastern European accent.

"Oh, that's Michael Morbius," said Doc Connors. "He's our new grad student. From Athens, Greece, I believe."

"Actually," said Michael, who came over to introduce himself, "I'm from Macedonia. But I studied pathology at the University of Athens. My specialty is the epidemiology of retroviral diseases."

"Cool," said Gwen with an approving nod.

After some brief introductions, Doc Connors said, "I think you'll both fit in just fine here. Gwen, Peter can show you around the lab before you get started today. Michael, why don't you come into my office, so we can discuss your research program?"

"That sounds fine," said Michael, who followed Curt into the office.

The rest of the day passed mostly without incident, with Peter showing Gwen the ropes; until, near the end of their shift, one of Debra's vampire bats got out of its enclosure and started to flit and flutter around the lab. Debra let out a shriek of surprise, and she, Michael, Peter, and Gwen all dropped whatever it was that they were doing in order to chase down the bat.

Martha Connors came storming out of her office. "What in God's name is going on out here?!"

"One of the specimens is loose!" shouted Debra.

"It's okay!" said Peter. "I've got this!" He climbed up on one of the tables. Okay, he thought to himself, I can't make this look too good; I can't make this look at all spidery. Be clumsy; be awkward. Feigning oafishness, he stumbled a bit as he jumped off the table, catching the vampire bat in midair. "Got it!" he shouted… just before he actually tripped, twisted his body the wrong way, and landed hard on the next table over. Beakers and test-tubes shattered underneath Peter. "Agh!" he cried. "Ow-ow-ow-ow!"

Debra ran up to Peter. "Is it okay?" she cried.

"I'm… ow," said Peter again.

"I meant my specimen!" she said, snatching the bat away from Peter. Debra examined it closely and was relieved to find that the bat was unharmed. Then she lovingly carried the shaking little animal back to its cage, whispering soothing things to it as she went.

"Peter, what could you possibly have been thinking?" said Martha, shaking her head. "Here; those cuts look nasty. I'll help you clean yourself up." She helped Peter to rise, and as he did so, even more blood squirted out all over the table. "Oh, you must have hit an artery!" exclaimed Martha. "You'll probably need stitches!"

"Nah, probably not," said Peter, putting a hand over the gushing wound on his wrist. "I clot fast."

Gwen, meanwhile, looked at the mess of bloody glass-shards all over the table and said, "Why don't I take care of this?"

"All right," said Martha, "but be careful of all the blood. The biohazard chute on the wall over there leads down to the incinerator."

"Got it," said Gwen. She started to clean up the table, while Martha led Peter over to a sink and retrieved a first-aid kit.

Gwen collected all of the glass shards, and she wiped up every last drop of blood with a cloth. And as she worked, a thought occurred to her. She put the mess into a plastic garbage-bag, walked over to the biohazard cute, and then looked around to make sure that nobody was watching her. She walked right past the chute and over to the lockers that Peter had shown her earlier, and she hid the bag inside of hers. Then she ran back out onto the main floor of the laboratory and acted as if nothing had happened.