Chapter Six: We'll See
It was the Chelsea section of Manhattan. The police ascertained the name of the suicide jumper. From adjacent windows officers pleaded with Ted to lower the gun that he was pointing at Spider-man's head.
Ignoring them, the gunman looked down at the masked adventurer who dangled by one hand from same ledge where upon he stood. The increasing wind combed the well-attired man's short salt and pepper hair to the right. His upper lip was a thin line under his turned-down nose. But he had enough lip to lift the right side of it and express disgust. Wrinkles of anger formed between his lightly haired eyebrows. Despite the police's coaxing, the pistol aimed at Spider-man moved up the gunman's face. Now the pistol lined up behind his eyes— he couldn't miss the young hero's head.
THIS IS IT, Spider-man said to himself. The teenaged adventurer opened the palm of his free hand to gain a reprise from the man's intention.
"Hold on, hold on, pal. Believe it or not, I'm here just to see if you wanted to buy some cookies."
Ted's face expressed surprise and Spider-man knew that he was just gifted an extra few seconds to figure out how to handle this loony-tune.
"Yeah, really," Spider-man said from below the man. "I mean cops get paid to fight crime, but me… : pffft :
Now it was the police who were caught speechless. Spider-man then raised himself up and leaned forward. This allowed him to interlock the fingers of his hands and support himself on his forearms.
He continued, "So I started a business and y'know, those Girl Scouts are a mean little bunch. They're always pushing me off my corner whenever I open shop to sell Spidey-Cookies. So instead of getting beaten up, I now go door-to-door. And once I saw you out here taking a nice night stroll, I said to myself, 'Now there's a fine fellow who'd appreciate—' "
"SHADDUP!" the man yelled. "Get outta here while you're still alive."
"Okay, okay, pal. On closer look, you don't look like the Gingersnap or Chocolate Chip type, anyway."
Spider-man let go and dropped out of sight. Having the proportionate strength of a spider, he landed without harm on the ledge below the man. Having the ability to jump 70 feet at a time, and having the quickness that matched a cheetah, Spider-man leaped a good distance to his left. Then he jumped up to the ledge above the gunman. There, yards away from him, he saw two cops leaning halfway out of a window directly below the jumper. Spider-man launched himself forward to stand a foot away from the window. Even though he cautioned himself to stop a nanosecond after each leap (he didn't want to repeat the embarrassment of slipping on the water-slick surface), he still accomplished this feat in less than three seconds.
The two officers had to restrain their gasps at the sudden and unexpected appearance of Spider-man by their side.
"Sorry guys," the youth said.
Meanwhile, the proposed jumper looked down to see if the hero had fallen to his death. Ted had leaned forward to give Spider-man a good view of his target. Balancing himself, the man had brought both hands to the sides of his hips. Instantly, Spider-man's gloves shot webbings to trap the gun hand and the other hand against the man's sides. The surprise made the Ted jump backwards and press himself against the building's wall.
The powerful youth dropped down beside the man saying, "On second thought, do you like Oatmeal Raisins?"
""You're not Giant-Man, " Ted growled.
"Well, I don't have to offer you carrot cake cookies— your vision is just fine.
"Sorry to disappoint you, bub. But look at the brighter side. You didn't waste a shot on me. …. Say, why are you so anxious to bury bullets into Mr. Mountain-top, anyway?"
The man angrily leaned forward. Spider-man used one powerful hand to force him back against the structure. The hero heard the commotion coming from the sides. The police were mounting the ledge.
The enraged man yelled, "I'll see you and Giant-Man hung from trees along side of your n - - - er friends."
The offensive reference to Negros caused Spider-man to react instinctively— he glued the man's lips shut with a web.
"That's enough," Spider-man said. "Any more verbal diarrhea from you and I might be tempted to kick you off the ledge, myself."
An officer wearing a thick cloth-like vest came behind the vulgar man. He wrapped Ted in a similar harness. As two ropes with hooks were lowered from above them, Spider-man pulled the gun down and away from Ted's hand. The hero then offered the weapon to the officer. The hooks were attached to the two harnesses and the man was escorted to the nearest window.
"Don't try to take the webbing off," Spider-man called out. "It will vaporize in less than 25 minutes."
A hand touched the youth's shoulder. He turned around to see an older policeman. This officer had a tired, remorseful look on his face. That meant one thing. Those damned Daily Bugle Editorials have had an influence on this officer. He was conflicted, but Spider-man wasn't sticking around to see if the officer would give him a break or try to arrest him. Actually, Peter became the break-giver here.
"Sorry, there,"— the youth looked at the officer's shoulder— "Sergeant. ….. My Spider-senses picked up a distress call and I have to see if it's real, or a false alarm."
His "senses" could do no such thing; it could only warn him of immediate danger to his person. But the hesitant policeman didn't need to know. With a shot of his web and a leap into the air, Spider-man made it to the building across the street. He retrieved his camera and streaked up the building.
Once out of sight he looked at his camera. Peter was sure that he was about to get back into J. Jonah Jameson's small sphere of graces— very, very small. He was a sure of it, … until he put his headphones on and heard the police bulletin.
"Aww, man. Now that this is happening, Jameson may not even look at the shots I took here. I have to make it to the 59th Street Bridge. "
Remembering that he was in Chelsea, and he faced a long northeast trek to the Upper Eastside, he reasoned, "We'll see if I can get there on time."
She had asked her mother if she could get out of bed to drink water. Had Lucinda Guthrie followed her daughter, she'd had known the real reason why Paige got up. But for now, Paige had to tend to the water-gathering excuse.
Paige's little hands turned off the kitchen faucet and she lighted off of the stool. In the past she had made the mistake of getting off the stool with the glass in her hand. But uh-uh— not now. A smart girl learns from her mistakes. .. and both Momma and Sam said she was a smart girl. If the floor was thirsty, it would have to wait for mopping day, yes, ma'am.
Paige reached over to slide the water glass to the counter edge closest to her. It was great that now she didn't have to be on her tippy-toes to see the top of the kitchen counter. A smart, tall mommy is what Holly needed, and as sure as the world's happiest laugh belongs to a round-belled puppy walking on grass, that's what Holly had.
Coming back to bed, the girl hugged the glass against her body. It was time to address the real reason that she left the main bedroom. Paige's room was Poppa's bedroom tonight. With her free hand Paige quietly opened the door to the room where the man she loved was blanketed in darkness. She barely made out his figure on the bed but, … yep, those were Poppa's feet hanging off the end of the mattress. The girl didn't have to stay still for long. She heard it— that wonderful snore that reassured Page that her Poppa was all right.
Like a turkey walking among vegetarians on Thanksgiving, a world's load of worry dropped off of Paige. She was then relaxed enough to smile and remember Sam's line when he, Momma, and Paige carried Poppa into the room.
Sam remarked, "He's bigg'r 'an you'n, but Ah ra-der carry him den you'n, girl."
"Good night, Poppa," she whispered. She threw a kiss into the room knowing that the darkness would be kind enough to deliver it. It would have been better if she kissed his forehead, but Paige knew that she was unprepared if he woke up. As it was, the hesitancy of getting close to Poppa was for Paige's good. If her lips enabled her to perceive that the bump on Poppa's head got bigger, she wouldn't be as peaceful.
The moonlight guided her little bare feet down the hallway, back to the main bedroom. The silver light dusted off some darkness from Momma's face. Paige knew that Momma would have one open eye waiting for her. Momma's reassuring smile proved Paige was right.
Momma was on her back and Holly's red air flopped over Momma's right arm. But when Paige entered, Lucinda Mae went on her side to face her daughter.
She whispered with a smile, "B'ought some wa-da, fo' yo-in and Holly, Momma,"
Momma whispered back that she was okay. But the water should be placed on the night stand in the event that Paige and Holly needed it later. The small, curly-haired benefactor took the glass from her chest and placed it on the wobbly, worn stand. On the other side of her mother, sleepy Samuel moaned-out something, or other about the bed.
Paige climbed onto the mattress. She didn't lie down immediately. She kneeled in front of her baby.
"How was she?" Paige asked while her eyes were fixed on Holly.
"Oh she was brave, while yah-in waz gone, " Momma whispered. "She did miss yah, though. She asked a couple-a- times when mommy would be back."
Paige smiled and brushed Holly's hair. "Well, Ah'm he-ah now, da-lin'. Ah'm so p'oud yah-in waz good fo' g'an'ma."
"An' why shouldn' she?" Lucinda Guthrie inquired about her grandchild. "She has a good mommy to teach ha. An' she gots ha mommy's upbeat personal'ty."
Lucinda traced the painted smile on the doll's face. "She's always happy."
Paige took on a serious face and looked at her mother. The girl nodded as she said, "Ah'm sure blessed ta have such a young'in."
Lucinda recognized the familiar words and motions that now came from the younger Guthrie woman. Fighting back laughter, the proud mother said, "Ah always says da same things abou' mah two babes."
Momma puckered up. That was the signal for Paige to lean her forehead in for a momma-smooch. The girl then stretched down on her side of the bed. This left Holly in the protective sandwich between the two strong Guthrie women.
As Paige followed Holly's example in using Momma's arm as a pillow, she heard Samuel say in a clearer, horsed moan, "Heard me Ma? Yah needs … ta sssset de alarm … ta get Paige onnnn the potty. … Don't wanna waaake up alllll wet."
The little girl raised her head to look over her mother and stared at the back of Sam's head as intently as Mrs. Billings looks at her hound, Bo, whenever she discoveres the pie that she placed on the window to cool is missing. … And Bo is licking his lips.
Paige frowned and smarted, "Bet'cha when you'n wake, my side is dry … Yah side'll look like a lake."
Momma hushed the girl while fighting back another laugh. Samuel Jonas turned around with his eyes still closed. He rested his head on his mother's shoulder. Sam was losing his battle to keep his weak smile. His right arm reached over Momma's tummy.
"We'lllll ssssee," he said, before accepting his defeat at the hands of sleep.
Over on Paige's side of Momma, the girl tenderly held Sam's hand, allowing her forearm to rest on Holly. Holly needed some contact with her mommy to be able to fall asleep, you know. Lucinda Guthrie pulled her children closer to her. In a world of bad and good times, this was certainly better than good.
Paige knew that her own smile would soon lose the same battle that overcame her brother. What could she do? She just took a deep breath and refered to her brother's last comment. She sighed, "Yeah. We'll sssseeeee….."
A half hour before Spider-man encountered the supposed suicide jumper, Henry Pym received a call from his sister. He sat on one of the breakfast nook stools as he stretched the long twirling cord from the wall mounted phone unit.
"Nee, what's all this? I heard over the radio that there was a man looking to specifically kill Giant-Man? I told you. You need to get out of this silly superhero business.
"Before, you were covert and untouchable. Now, you're out there on everybody's radar. It all happened when that woman put you in the spotlight by enlisting you in the Avengers."
Hank knew that Erica was extra angry when she refused to mention Jan's name; they had never gotten along. On his end, despite once again defending himself as an adult making adult decisions, Hank was glad that she had called. This older Yollie was taking his mind off of his latest disappointment with Jan.
He began, "Listen. … No— listen, I said. We started the group together and I didn't have to follow anything that Jan initiates."
Erica responded with a mocking laugh. She then referred to the woman's use of sex to get him to pay for a luxury car, get him to show up at parties that he hated just for Jan to make business connections, and have expensive weekend getaways to the Caribbean.
Firstly, Hank didn't feel that it was proper to talk about his sex life with his sister. Thankfully, she didn't go into that "fallen from Grace" scenario.
Secondly, he had to deal with the increasing resentment that he felt towards Jan's manipulative ways with males. The conversation that was supposed to be a diversion was just bringing him back to it. Lastly, there was a pressing matter that he had to investigate. His sister's call was what he needed.
Calming Erica down, Hank explained that he needed to find out the identity of the suicide bomber who was waiting outside the Avenger's mansion. And what was his motive.
The maniac started to say something similar to the war cry of the terrorist group, the Sons Of The Serpents. Janet's boot to his face, stopped the man at "This time the.." Hank had to know if the guy was connected with the violent racists. If these southern whack-jobs were coming north to target Giant-Man, then no one around him was safe.
When he faced super-villains, the threat was upfront and recognizable. With the S.O.T.S. using civilians, no one could be sure from where an assassination bullet would come. Civilians were everywhere, in every city.
"You still have close buddies high in the F.B.I. hierarchy," he told Erica. "I need you to get them to send an agent into this lunatic's cell. I need to know what the agent looks like and when he'll arrive at the precinct. I'll do the rest."
Yollie knew what was going to happen. Hank was going to hitch-hick a ride on the agent's shoulder. Once in front of the would-be-assassin, Hank would hop on to him and slip him truth serum. Hank had perfected the drug, so that a tiny drop on a human tongue would render the subject groggy and cooperative in seconds. Erica had admitted that it was something that all law-enforcement would love to use, but were forbidden to do so. Besides, no drug at their disposal was a powerful as Hank's. Oh, Erica had to add (since she was the big sister and not the runny-nosed little sibling) that the agent wouldn't be allowed in the cell. He'd be with the kook in an interrogation room with the kook's lawyer.
The phone was hung up. A minute later, it rang. Hank picked it up quickly because it wasn't on his private "Ant-Man Line." The cleaning ladies weren't there. But there were two other females in the penthouse who need not get involved.
The suicide bomber's name—Darren Clover— and other information were passed on from Erica to the mind that could remember anything.
"Now Nee, this doesn't mean that we're finished talking about your retirement from spandex town, you know."
"I know. I have to go now. Love you a bushel."
"I love you a bushel and a peck," she replied repeating their special end-of -conversation phrase.
Erica put the phone back on the receiver. How would she have explained that she was calling from Georgetown University Hospital, in Virginia? Nee had so much to deal with that she couldn't bring herself to tell him about the near-tragedy that brought her here. She would talk it over with her husband and find the best way to break the bad news to Hank.
"Yep," she said to herself, "We'll see."
Yolanda Vanko wrapped the towel around her hair as she came out of her bathroom and into the bedroom. Showers had a way of making annoying thoughts wash away. And being in a good mood, she refused to think about that classless, obnoxious, pain-in-the-rear Janet Van Dyne. Henry Pym was a better choice for her thoughts. He was handsome, gentlemanly, an encourager, kind to the point of being a fantasy prince. What a wonderful man saw in that wo— no. She'll not invite thoughts about that butt-scab.
She removed her towel to allow her snow-white hair to air dry. The ravishing Russian looked up to the top shelf of her closet where her scrap books were placed.
This incessant habit of collecting memories started when her father, Anton, was away working for the Soviets and her mother, Oleysa, was sent to "Retraining Camp" for the socially subversive. Her mother's brother, Rostislav Popov was a former teacher who had returned from the same camp. He and Yolanda became close. Together they secretly built a radio with which they listened to the Radio Free Europe broadcast in a very low volume.
Together, they also invented a written languish that included hieroglyphics and apparently silly joint Russian words. It was with this new form of writing that they recorded all the counter communist propaganda. This is where she picked up her "collector's side." She also verbally spared with her very skilled Uncle who took the side of the government view purely for critical thinking lessons. But that bit of background is best left for another time.
One scrapbook held mementos of Old World Yolanda It had pictures of family, friends. There were pictures of her with mom and dad before the government took special interest in Anton Vanko. There were a few pictures of her and mom after the government took him and broke open a whole in her family. The second and third memorabilia books presented the New World Yolanda. There were more pictures in the two scrap books despite the fact that it covered less years than the first. In America, accessibility to cameras was also included in the "Land of Opportunity" clause. The fourth, fifth and sixth books were more aspiration centered.
Henry had hinted that he was interested in striking out into a profit-generating venture outside of government grants. Yollie thought that the idea was great. One book was set aside to chronicle Yolanda's hoped-for joint endeavor with Hank.
Books number five and six featured as many magazine and newspaper features on Henry and the Avengers as she could find. She compared them against the accounts that Henry shared with her. He didn't need to know that Yolanda was determined to join the team as the new Unicorn. She gathered a lot of info that would help that pursuit. The last scrap book featured "the others." They were the Fantastic Four, a new crusader named Daredevil, the least publicized X-men and someone of particular interest— Spider-Man.
He was somehow a completely different type of hero. And that intrigued her. He had the strength of perhaps 40 men, equaling Hank when he attained twelve feet. But unlike the handsome, towering Avenger, in a fight, Spider-man had more things going for him aside from physical prowess.
Sure, Hank had the ability to form armies of obedient ants. But that wasn't as impressive as the fact that Spider-man incorporated the acrobatic skills of a Daredevil into his muscle work. Then there was this mysterious webbing that he used to conquer his foes. Yolanda was also fascinated by this whole "spider-senses" ability. She couldn't bring herself to fully believe in it, but newspapers claim that spider-senses warn the red-and-blue adventurer of danger. He was an unusual character in a field of an already unusual class of people, to say the least.
Yolanda refused to go along with the accusation that originated from bombastic Editor, J. Jonah Jameson that Spider-man posed a danger to society. Due to her Old Yolanda experiences, she could smell slanted propaganda very easily.
This last scrap book (that doubled as her study guide) was taken down and placed on a small table standing a few feet from her bed. Yolanda was behind on her clipping and pasting.
She had the latest photos and articles on the heroes inside the center drawer of the table, but she was having a tough time opening it. Finally, she won the battle against the many cramped New York and New Jersey newspapers that kept the drawer closed. She began to read, clip and save.
At the last minute she decided not to include the American Civil Liberties Union's suit against Daredevil for violating some inane right of the criminally insane man, the Owl. She took note to one day look up the other cases of the ACLU to see what this organization was about. Siding with a loan shark and murderer didn't mean siding with justice, Yolanda thought.
She instead retrieved the Henry Pym-centered scrapbook and pasted an article about Dr. Pym's visit to a High School. Five weeks ago Dr. Pym came to a school's auditorium to give a life-goal lecture. Most found it boring, but one Peter Parker enjoyed it. Dr. Pym then said that he was starting a scholarship program where he would reward the most academically successful students once a year. As it so happened, Peter's name was announced as the first winner of the annual program. Off to the side, after the thanks and back patting, Hank awarded him two tickets for an amusement park and a set of his yet marketed, revolutionary headphones. Hank kiddingly said that, as a fellow bookworm to another, the studies could be put aside for fun occasionally.
Yolanda then turned to newspaper accounts of the New York arrival of a man named Kraven. His ship made port late morning last Saturday. The articles said that Kraven was the world's greatest hunter and he came to New York to track down the greatest of all game—Spider-man. The news media just gobbled it up. It was surprising that the Spider-man hater, the Daily Bugle's Jameson came out in a Sunday Editorial denouncement stating that Kraven would be committing a crime stalking any human … even the intolerable Spider-man.
What particularly caught Yolands'a eyes were the many animals that conveniently escaped their shipping crates at the time Kraven set foot on the dock. The Bugle had no pictured of the event, but the New York Journal American had twelve images of Kraven pushing big wild cats back into their cages. As she browsed through the snake-throwing, gorilla-subduing antics of this world's greatest hunter, Yolanda asked herself, why these cages and crates were suddenly too weak to hold their captives? If they were weak to begin with, why didn't the animals escape during the nearly week-long trek to the United States?
No, this had to be staged to get into Spider-man's head, she reasoned. She didn't like set-ups. It reminded her of the Soviet Union. And naturally, she had a strong negative feeling about this "hunter."
Yolanda yawned and stretched after gluing down the last Kraven picture. It was late and the weary nineteen-year-old was going to sleep. But as she made her way to the bed she had a wish. In this wonderful land of opportunity, she hoped to personally witness two events. Firstly, she wanted to see a certain very handsome, and otherwise very intelligent, fellow realize his mistake in his choice of a love-interest. Secondly, Yollie wanted to be there in person when Spider-man knocks Kraven's block off. Could they happen? We'll see. We'll see.
It the same minute when TV cameras caught Spider-man dangling from a building, Wilbur Day had changed his plan. In his Queens apartment, he turned to the live feed and absently stroked the metal wrapped around his torso.
Wilbur was inches under 6 feet, graying prematurely, and his body was starting on its way to a stomach bulge that characterized most middle-aged men. He was also one of the many brilliant men who once worked under Anton Vanko. His tenure in Starks Industries was not long.
When Wilbur left Stark's Industries, he stole the Experimental Weapons Department Head's blueprints for telescopic hydraulic lifts and a Molecular Condenser. Vanko and Stark had relegated the two projects to the back of the closet, so-to-speak, so their theft would not be readily noticed.
He brought the prospectus of the Molecular Condenser to the rival Kaxton Corporation in hopes of winning a departmental manager position in that firm that would bring a comparable salary to that of Vanko's lucrative Stark deal.
Reginald Kaxton took the plans and promised Wilbur the high paying job that he sought. It didn't happen. Now, after nearly a year of carrot-dangling, Wilbur Day was going to have his revenge. He had privately designed a metal suit similar to that of his former boss' bodyguard, Iron Man. He could attest to its durability, but even Wilbur had to admit that when it came to arming the metal suit he was nowhere the equal of Starks nor Vanko.
Still, he had the know-how to situate eight small bomb-tipped missiles on the right and left of the back of his armor. Vanko's compact hydraulic lifts were fashioned into the armors' legs. With mere toe movements, the metal legs could lift him as high as 20 stories, if he wished.
Tonight he was going to pay Kaxton a visit at his Upper Westchester estate. But what better way to test out his metallic powers than by downing the public menace, Spider-Man? And if he made himself a hero, the public could be turned to his side and public opinion would turn against Kaxton Corporation. Wilbur could find a place to hide out. Then the fake genius could not only get law-enforcement to investigate Kaxton's theft of Stark property, but also the subsequent "death" of a Wilbur Day. Oh, this plan was getting better as Wilbur turned it over in his head.
But he first had to get to Spider-man and crush him. He lived twenty blocks from the 59th Street Bridge, but Wilbur wasn't going to use his car. He wanted nothing in the attack area to be trace back to him. Once the metallic warrior shows himself, he'd have to abandon his car and come back to it much later as Wilbur Day. Maybe some cop will run a license search for something stupid like over staying on a parking spot too long.
A taxi would not be prudent. His armor was too bulky to hide under a jacket. Then the question arose, would any vehicle reach the scene on time? Spider-man has a knack of disappearing quickly.
No, he'd go as the armored being. Wilbur was already wearing the chest plate. All he had to do put on his metal arms, head gear, and his prized possession. That last item would be the preferred mode of transportation as well as a weapon. Wilbur smiled as he turned away from the screen images and headed for his closet. He was going to wear the telescopic stilts. He hadn't thought of a proper name for the new "hero," but since his legs would be the most prominent, Stilt-Man would do for now.
The world will get its first view of the Stilt-Man. Yes, we'll see the debut of a new hero.
What a stubborn jerk, Jan Van Dyne thought. Here she was banging on the door of Lab F and Hank would not respond. Damn it. She had just gotten off the phone with Steve Rodgers who reported a threat on the 59th Street Bridge. He couldn't get the other Avengers, but knowing that Giant-Man and the Wasp lived somewhere close to the bridge, Steve requested that the duo meet the terror first and he'd joined them as soon as possible.
Jan kept banging on the door of this childish lunk head. She knew that he was in there, because the normally opened door was locked and, in the dark hallway, light shone under the door.
"Just 'cause you're angry at me, don't ignore the call to assemble," she snapped.
This was getting her nowhere. And even if the Russian rat's bedroom was two stories above, Jan didn't want to give her the slimmest chance of knowing anything about their current spat.
Okay, then. Let him be that way. The Wasp will take flight and test the new weapon on her arm. Hank already knows the danger— she told him. Once she flies out of the window, the big jerk will follow. He thinks he can do what he childishly wants? He thinks that she can't move him into action, … into joining her? Ha! We'll see.
Inspiration: Actually this chapter takes place 10 months before Daredevil # 8.