XXXII. Avocation
Alistair Smythe rode the elevator up to Wilson Fisk's office. That was the way of it with Mr. Fisk: no matter how important the business, no matter the inconvenience to the employee, he didn't come see you; you went up to see him. Even a young computer genius in a wheelchair had to suffer the indignities demanded by Fisk's ego. Alistair found that galling, insufferable even; but he was willing to do anything to keep Fisk happy in the short term, to keep the Kingpin of Crime—oh, yes, Alistair knew the truth about him; any well-connected hacker would—off his father's back until the Spider-Slayer project was finished.
After getting off the elevator and enduring yet another pointless pat-down from Fisk's guards, Alistair wheeled himself across the room and came to a stop before Fisk's desk.
Wilson Fisk was sitting at his desk, examining a stack of papers. Without looking up, he said, "Report?"
"Report?" echoed Alistair with a contemptuous snort. "Is that any way to talk to the boy-genius who hacked SHIELD? I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Fisk, and I certainly won't be made to act like one of your sniveling henchmen!"
Fisk looked up, his expression carefully neutral. "I'm a busy man, with no time for games—and you definitely do not want to get into a pissing-contest with me. Now be a good little 'sniveling henchman' and give me your REPORT!" Fisk's hand came down onto his desk with that last word, and it was startling enough to make Alistair jump in his wheelchair.
"Um… yes sir," said Alistair, a bit shaken. "My virus managed to copy and download every file with any mention of the super-soldier serum or anyone connected to it. I've got specialized searching-algorithms combing through the files as we speak, but so far, it looks as if SHIELD only ever came close to replicating the serum on their own in one instance."
"And have your 'algorithms' identified this instance?" asked the Kingpin, his gruff voice having lost none of its dangerous edge.
Alistair gave a sneering smile and said, "Is 'sudo apt-get' the quickest way to install a software package?"
Fisk stared blankly at Alistair for several seconds before growling, "That had better mean 'yes'."
Cowed, Alistair looked down and said, "That means 'yes'."
"In that case, 'boy-genius', enlighten me. What have you learned?"
Alistair flipped open the laptop that he kept on his person at all times, tapped a few keys, and scrolled to the proper screen. "The project took place in the early nineties, at a SHIELD facility in Utah. It was headed up by three scientists: Dr. Bruce Banner, Dr. Richard Parker, and Dr. Edward Brock. By all accounts, they came very close to replicating the serum, but then the program was sabotaged. SHEILD thought that it was Dr. Parker at first; but it turned out to be the Chameleon, disguised as Dr. Parker. They never found out who Chameleon was working for, but they suspected HYDRA."
"How… convenient," said Fisk quietly. He would have to ask Chameleon about that later. In the meanwhile, this was the best lead he'd had since he first learned about Jack Hardesky through his underworld contacts, a long time ago. "And what happened to the results of that project?"
"Lost in the destruction of the facility," said Alistair. "Bruce Banner was able to preserve some of the work; it was the foundation for his later experiments."
"And we all know how that went," said Fisk. "Anyway, we can't touch Banner; he's too closely watched. What about the other two?"
"Both dead; killed in the same plane-crash, along with their wives. Tsk, nasty piece of work, that. Again, SHIELD suspected HYDRA involvement, but there was no evidence."
"Hm," said Fisk, leaning back in his chair. "Well, get me everything you can on the two dead scientists. I have an ace up my sleeve that might just unlock a few doors that even SHIELD couldn't."
• • •
Harry Osborn sat at his father's desk in the top-floor office at Oscorp. Nobody had dared to occupy Norman's old office since his death; only Harry had been so bold. It was the night before Halloween, the same night that had seen Peter, MJ, Gwen, and Felicia in a SHIELD van with Bruce Banner and Betty Ross, driving out to the X-Mansion. Earlier that day, Harry had witnessed a band of mercenaries led by Silver Sable and Kraven the Hunter hamming it up on the TV news. They'd been hired by the mayoral candidate, Sam Bullit, to find and destroy the mutant Spider-Thing said to be stalking people in Central Park. Many people in the news media were skeptical that such a creature even existed; they were even calling it a Halloween publicity stunt. But Harry not only believed that the Spider-Thing was real; he also strongly suspected that it was somehow connected to Spider-Man.
However, and unfortunately for the mercenaries, SHIELD had gotten to Central Park first. That was something of an embarrassment to the mercs, and by extension, to their employer, Bullit. They'd been unable to find any trace of a monster in Central Park, and now Bullit was being laughed at on some of the nightly news programs as a trigger-happy reactionary. That also likely meant that Silver Sable and Kraven hadn't collected much of a paycheck from their employer—which worked in Harry's favor.
It took a great deal of searching through back-channels on the internet and the deep web before he finally found a list of numbers he could call. Harry wanted results, as soon as he could get them, and if that meant greasing the palms of a few shady characters, then so be it. He had the resources to spare now. Sure, it was his father's hard-earned fortune; but Harry had no qualms about spending it liberally in the service of avenging Norman Osborn's death. It was a matter of family honor.
He spoke a few words, uttered the phone-number, and the voice-activated phone built into his father's desk came alive. After a couple of rings, a woman answered.
"Hello?" said Harry. "Am I speaking with Silver Sable?"
"What's it to you?"
"I have a job for you," said Harry. "Interested?"
"Maybe. If the pay's good."
"My name is Harry Osborn. I'm the present of Oscorp Industries. And I'm willing to pay you fifty million dollars for the capture of Spider-Man, the Green Goblin, or any one of their known associates—Scarlet Spider, the Black Cat, or the Hobgoblin."
Harry could almost hear the woman smiling as she answered. "And if I were to capture all of them?"
"Then I guess that'd be fifty million a head," said Harry. "But I want them alive. I've got questions that need answered. Is Kraven still with you?"
"He is."
"Then let him know that if you do capture Spider-Man, he can have him back after I'm done with him. I hear he has some unfinished business with the wall-crawler too."
"I'll be sure to pass that along," said Sable. "Mr. Osborn, I think we have a deal."
"A pleasure doing business with you," said Harry. "Assuming you come through for me."
"Oh, there's no question of that," said Sable. Then she hung up.
Harry smiled to himself. That had gone better than he'd planned. She didn't even try to negotiate the price; but then, based on his research, he knew that there was history between her and Spider-Man. Spidey had gotten Sable captured and sent to jail on two separate occasions; that was the sort of thing that made you crave vengeance more than payment. Well, if her vendetta played right into his designs, that was more than fine with him. He looked up the next phone number.
• • •
FADE IN:
INT. A DINGY APARTMENT—NIGHT
Angle on DEADPOOL, masked, wearing his customary red and black costume. He sits on his bed in a crummy apartment, carefully polishing a pair of katanas.
A phone RINGS.
Deadpool picks up the phone—it's one of those old-timey candlestick telephones with the detachable horn-like earpiece—and answers in a mocking, high-pitched voice.
DEADPOOL
Helloooo? Who is it?
HARRY OSBORN (Off-Screen.)
Hello, am I speaking with the one they call
'Deadpool'? The… 'merc with a mouth'?
DEADPOOL
That's my name, don't wear it out!
HARRY (O.S.)
Uh… right. Anyway, my name is Harry
Osborn; I'd like to hire you.
Deadpool puts the phone up for a moment and faces the camera.
DEADPOOL
Ooh, Harry Osborn! Doesn't he turn into
the Green Goblin at some point? This
might be kind of fun…
(returning to the phone-call)
What could a kid like you want to hire
me for? You sound like you're twelve.
HARRY (O.S.)
I'm the president of a major corporation!
DEADPOOL
Right, so… you're, what, fourteen then?
HARRY (O.S.)
Listen, I want you to capture the Scarlet
Spider for me! Fifty mil if you can bring
her to me, unharmed. Are you interested?
DEADPOOL
(aside to the camera)
I thought Scarlet Spider was a dude named
Ben Reilly. Peter Parker's clone, right?
His question is answered by yours truly: your dashing, handsome author (and, in the case of this particular scene, NARRATOR).
NARRATOR (Voice-Over)
You're not supposed to know that. These
are people's secret identities here!
DEADPOOL
What, I can't read comics? Watch cartoons?
See movies? Read rebooted comics and see
rebooted cartoons and movies? And then
read bad fanfic with the smutty bits?
NARRATOR (V.O.)
(dangerously)
Watch it…
DEADPOOL
Relax, I didn't mean this one.
(snickers)
In your dreams… But it'd still be a whole
lot better with more of me in it! I think
I'm gonna say 'yes' to Osborn's offer.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
You'd better not! You aren't in this story,
Deadpool. You're just getting a cameo.
DEADPOOL
(crestfallen)
Aww… really? That's it?
NARRATOR (V.O.)
That's it. Now tell him 'no' and hang up.
DEADPOOL
Hey, then we can go to the beach! I know
this great beach with a nice little Italian joint
nearby. We can have pizza and margarita
shooters!
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Nobody has margaritas with pizza…
DEADPOOL
(points at camera)
Hey, nice reference!
(to Harry)
Sorry… gonna have to say 'no' there, champ.
Good luck getting your career past Spidey 3
and Spring Breakers though, Franco!
Deadpool hangs up on a very confused Harry Osborn and goes back to polishing his swords.
FADE OUT.
• • •
That same evening, Colonel John Jameson was riding the elevator up to the Daily Bugle main office, to meet his father for a late outing. He stepped out onto the floor—even at this late hour, well after the evening edition had gone to the presses, there were staff-writers sitting at the desks, plugging away at stories for the next day's morning paper. J. Jonah Jameson was just putting on his hat and coat and coming out of his office.
"Hey, pop," said John. "You ready to head out?"
"Sure; I'm all finished here tonight. Let's go." As they walked back towards the elevator, Jonah cast a sidelong glance at his son and said, "You know, I can't help but notice that you've been spending a lot of your free time with your old man these days. Not that I don't appreciate it, but… aren't you doing anything else with your time off? Met any nice girls who might want to settle down with an astronaut and give an old newspaper man some grandchildren to spoil?"
John laughed aloud at that. "I'm afraid not, dad. But… that's part of what I wanted to talk to you about. My leave's ending soon; the docs all say I've got a clean bill of health; and so I'll be heading back down to Canaveral in a week's time."
"You'll be back with the shuttle program?"
John grinned. "Assuming everything clears with NASA… yeah, it looks like it."
"Well, that is news worth celebrating!" said Jonah. "What do you say we go out for—WHAT THE F—?!"
J.J. was interrupted by the roar of a supersonic missile, flying through the air straight for the Bugle office. Writers screamed and scrambled away from their desks as the projectile crashed through the glass windows, sending shards and wires and other debris flying everywhere. Colonel Jameson shielded his father from the crash and held him down, waiting for something to explode… only, nothing did. The lights in the office flickered on and off, and a few broken computers sparked in the aftermath of the crash. There was also the sound of some kind of whirring engine sputtering out, and several people groaned as they tried to pick themselves up.
"What the hell…?" breathed John as he stood up and looked over the wreckage. It looked as if a one-man aircraft of some kind had just crashed into the office—in fact, it was more like a powered glider than an aircraft. And in the middle of the crash-site, slumped over the wreckage of a broken desk, was none other than the glider's pilot: a man in blue battle-armor and an orange rubber mask.
Jonah dusted himself off, coughed, and stood up. "Hey… I know that creep!" he shouted. "That's the Hobgoblin! John, grab him before he can get away!"
"I don't think he's going anywhere, pop," said John. The Hobgoblin was rolling on the ground, moaning in pain. He looked really injured. Colonel Jameson walked over to the wreckage and picked the Hobgoblin up off the ground.
"Had it in for me, did you?" said Jonah. "Thought you'd assassinate me in the night! But it'll take more than that to bring down a Jameson! Now, let's see who you really are!"
John pulled off the Hobgoblin's mask… revealing the face of one of Jonah's top reporters, Ned Leeds!
"Leeds!?" sputtered Jonah. "You're the Hobgoblin!?"
Leeds answered by groaning again and muttering something incomprehensible.
Jonah snorted. "Well, you can tell that to the cops, you lousy, good-for-nothing, worthless—"
"Dad," said John, interrupting him, "it looks like Ned's really out of it here. Maybe we should call an ambulance too." He carefully set Leeds back down on the floor, making sure to keep the man's head elevated on a broken piece of desk.
Jonah growled something under his breath. "Rrr… fine. Do what you want. But I'm still having Leeds arrested! First he disappears for a week, and now this? It explains everything!" He paused and caught his breath before continuing. "Erm… son, it looks like we're going to have to take a rain-check on that celebration. This is front-page news, and—"
"And that means you have to put in some overtime," said John with a sigh. "Yeah, sure, I get it."
"Tomorrow night, son," said Jonah. "I promise! We'll invite some people, make a party of it—"
John chuckled and said, "Are you sure you're okay dad? Nothing broken?"
"What, me? I'm fine! Healthy as a horse, and twice as strong!" He looked down at Leeds, who was now unconscious on the floor, and added, "No costumed crook's gonna get the better of me!"
"All right, then," said John.
After that, Colonel Jameson stuck around just long enough to give his statement to the police and to see Leeds get rushed off to the hospital by the paramedics.
• • •
The night before Halloween in 2012 was also a full moon. As Colonel Jameson walked outside the Bugle's office-building, he caught sight of that full moon hanging low in the sky, just above the New York City skyline. He had thought to catch a cab and head home for the night. But now something changed: he stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the moon, entranced.
Almost without thinking, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the ruby amulet that he'd purchased at the weird old fortune-teller's shop. He held it up at arm's length and gazed at the shimmering red stone against the backdrop of the full moon. It was glowing, refracting the moonlight… it was beautiful. Possibly the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life.
He could practically hear the voices in his head telling him so.
Put it on… put it on. Come to me… I don't know why, or how, but I can call to you… come to me. Come, child of the night. Serve me.
Colonel John Jameson obeyed the call. He put the necklace on. And under the light of the full moon, he began to change.
• • •
"Even a man who is pure of heart
And says his prayers by night
May become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms
And the autumn moon is bright."
—The Wolfman, Universal Pictures, 1941
• • •
Michael Morbius opened the window and crept into the ESU genetics lab. It was all dark inside. That was how he preferred it these days. He clung to the wall and crawled down it, into the lab. As he went, he spoke aloud to himself—sometimes that was the only way he could keep his thoughts straight.
"I… know things now. Feel them. I don't know why, or how, but I feel… connected. There are others… like me. Around the world. Children of the night. I… fear to say it aloud, but I can no longer deny what I am. Vampire. I live; the others—the ones I can feel—they are dead, and yet I live. Somehow, I am a living vampire."
He reached the floor and flipped over so that he was now walking upright, pacing as he spoke to himself. "I hunger for human blood… it seems that the serum has both worsened my disease and cured it. I can theorize that I am no longer producing any functional hemoglobin at all… and yet I now have the power to absorb it from others. If I feed… on others' lives. How long, I wonder, can I go on like this?"
Like a psychic storm, buffeting his mind from all sides with forceful protests, the voices of the others told him to be strong. To abandon all feelings of kinship with the race of cattle called 'humanity'. After all, they were food—prey. He was now one of them—a predator. The top of the worldwide food-chain. Their blood was his for the taking.
"N—no," said Michael, gripping the sides of his head. His voice rose to a defiant shout. "I will not be like you! I will not be a monster!"
Elsewhere in the lab, something made a clattering noise. A woman gasped. Michael hissed and sniffed the air. The scent was… someone familiar. "Show yourself!" he demanded. "Do not make me hunt you down!"
"M—Michael?" said a tentative voice. Debra Whitman switched on a light in the next room and appeared in the doorway. "Michael, is that you?"
Michael remained concealed in the shadows. "Debra? I'm here, but… you mustn't come any closer…"
"Michael, it's okay," said Debra, coming into the room. "I know everything. I've figured it all out. I cleaned up after your accident, so that Dr. Connors wouldn't find out about it. And—and I listened to your recordings. I know about your disease."
"You… know…?"
"Is it true?" asked Debra. "Are you the… the 'vampire' they're talking about in the news? Show yourself to me, Michael. I promise I won't—"
Michael walked into the light, and Debra gasped.
"You find me hideous," he mumbled.
"No," protested Debra. "No…" She walked up to Michael and rested a hand on his cheek. She touched his pointed, bat-like ear and ran her hand down to his jaw again, where his fangs protruded over his bottom lip. "You look… Michael, what you've done to yourself is incredible!"
Michael turned away from Debra and easily pushed her aside with one hand. "I'm a killer! I must feed on others to continue living! You could never…"
"Never what?" said Debra, drawing close again. "Never love you like this?" She took his face in her hands again and gently kissed him. "Then let me help. We'll work together. Find a way to cure you."
"Debra… I don't know that I can be cured, but…" In that moment, a twisted glint appeared in Michael's eye, and something about his manner changed. He went from cowering to confident in an instant and declared, "But I could endure this life with you by my side! Do you still have the serum?"
Debra paused. "…Yes. I do. We'll need it if we want to formulate a cure."
"Or we could use it now… to change you, to be like me!"
"I… I don't know…"
"Think about it!" said Michael, lifting off the ground by levitating up a few feet. "I have such power now! I am practically indestructible—possibly immortal!" He looked into Debra's eyes, drawing her gaze into his, commanding her: "Fetch the serum, Debra. Join me in this new life… for eternity!"
Entranced, Debra nodded. "Yes… Michael… I'll join you… I want to…"
Then, just as Debra turned away from Michael, a small metal canister bounced into the room. It was a gas-grenade; it started spewing out a cloud of foul, garlic-smelling gas. Michael hissed and backed away. Debra shook her head and seemed to come out of the trance.
A man walked into the room: black hair, black skin, black sunglasses, black leather clothes, black flak-jacket. In one hand he held a silver katana; in the other he carried a gun, which he pointed at Michael Morbius. "Back away from the bloodsucker, woman," he announced. "Don't let him look into your eyes."
Debra coughed and stumbled away from the gas-cloud. "Who are you?" she demanded.
"Call me Blade. I'm a vampire-slayer."
"No!" shouted Debra, rushing over to Blade and gripping his arm. "You can't—Michael's not a real vampire! He just has a disease! This is a genetics lab—we can cure it!"
"If you're with him, then you're against me!" said Blade. He violently shoved Debra aside and said, "Out of my way!" Then he twirled his sword and stalked over to where Michael was still writhing on the floor, weakened from the gas and coughing his lungs out. He raised up the sword and prepared to strike. "Just another dead vampire…" he said with a smile.
That was when an enormous ball of fur and muscle crashed through another window into the lab, and right into Blade, tackling him to the ground. This newly arrived creature howled like a great wolf and raked wicked claws over the vampire-slayer's Kevlar armor. Blade's sword and gun both clattered to the ground and skidded away, but he fought back fiercely, punching with bare fists. Debra rushed over to help Michael up, while Blade wrestled with his attacker. Eventually, the ferociously strong creature managed to get the upper hand and pinned Blade to the floor. Now Blade found himself staring up into the snarling muzzle of a living, breathing werewolf… with a red ruby pendant hanging around his neck. Blade was stunned; he'd seen pictures of that very artifact drawn in numerous ancient texts on vampire-lore. "The Amulet of Lycaon! Impossible! You're… varcolac… supposed to be extinct!"
The werewolf growled back, drool flying as he struggled to speak, "Am… Man-Wolf! Now… you… stop talk!" He delivered a vicious head-butt to Blade, knocking him out cold.
Michael and Debra watched in cautious amazement as the Man-Wolf stood up, placed one paw-like foot on Blade's chest, and howled at the moon in triumph.
"What… are you?" asked Michael.
Man-Wolf stalked over to Morbius and bowed low. "Your servant… Master. This place… not safe. Go… we must."
Michael turned to Debra and looked deeply into her eyes again. "Debra, my love. Do you trust me?"
"Yes—of course! For always, Michael!"
"Then get the serum, and one of your darling little pets, and anything else we may need. I mean to be gone from this place for good." Then Michael walked over to Blade's unconscious form. While Man-Wolf watched, a predatory grin on his muzzle, Michael picked his adversary up by the jacket collar. "You will not threaten me again!" Then he bared his fangs and sank them into Blade's throat… only to instantly hiss and spit the blood out again.
"Something… wrong, Master?" asked Man-Wolf.
"His blood is foul," said Michael. "Tainted. It reeks of death. I must feed elsewhere." He threw Blade back to the floor and said, "Come."
A moment later, Debra came back into the room, carrying a cooler with supplies and a small cage that held one of her vampire-bat specimens. "This way, my dear," said Michael. He took Debra into his arms and lifted up off the ground, flying both of them out the window. Man-Wolf leapt out the window after them and followed them on the ground, out into the night.
Sometime later, Blade came to. He felt his neck and staunched the bleeding. Then he collected his gear, pulled out a flip-phone, and hit a button for speed-dial. "Whistler," he said, "Blade here. We've got a big problem."