by Peter David
He leaned forward, looking concerned. “Are you in trouble?”
“You… might say so.” She discovered she was having trouble meeting his gaze, and forced herself to look him in the eyes. “This feels funny. Not sure how to begin. But… you know how minds do tricks on us?”
“Tell me about it,” he said ruefully.
“Well, mine did a real number on me,” she told him. “Uh… what it did was… it listened.”
He stared at her blankly, clearly not sure what she was talking about.
“It… heard what you said to me after my show that night,” she continued, still nervous, but beginning to grow in confidence with every spoken word. “I believe it was always listening, but it refused to let me accept it until… until it told me to. That you were different that night. But I was afraid to trust you. And… I’ve been thinking things through…”
She reached across the table toward him, and briefly it seemed as if he was reluctant to respond. But then he did, his hand grasping hers, their fingers interlocking. It was a connection being made between the two of them, something that she hadn’t even fully realized she’d lost until she discovered it again right then.
And then, just like that, the connection was broken.
Mary Jane jumped slightly, startled by the abruptness as Peter pulled his hand free. “Listen… there’s more for me to say now,” he told her. Her eyebrows knit in perplexity. “I… maybe rushed into things. I thought I was—”
Her voice went cold. “Wait a minute. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I…” His skin was looking three shades of ashen. “Uh… I thought I could be there for you, Mary Jane… but I can’t. My mind was playing tricks, too.”
She wanted to kill him.
She wanted to pick up the bread knife sitting between them and drive it into his chest. She wanted to strangle him with the napkin, throw coffee in his face. She wanted to scream at him, to howl that nobody yanks her around like this, dammit, how dare he screw with her emotions, how dare he be so unable to commit that he couldn’t sustain even the possibility of a relationship for longer than thirty seconds? What kind of monster was he, what sort of freak?
And at the same time, she wanted to help him, to hold him. To find whatever great weight was occupying his obviously tortured mind and lift it from him. It was as if he were possessed by a malevolent spirit of misery that had briefly departed, only to come roaring back to him and seize occupancy once more, like a pestilent squatter. She wanted to know what magic words needed to be said to lift it from him forever, banish it to a realm where it could never touch him and he might therefore know happiness ever after.
The warring sides of her mind collided and canceled each other out, and the only outer reflection of her inner turmoil was a single tear that ran down her cheek. She tried to keep her voice steady and barely managed to do so. “Do you love me, Peter… or not?”
“I… I don’t,” he told her in a voice that he probably imagined was firm, but lacked any trace of conviction.
“Then I have one more request.” She paused and then said, “Kiss me.”
“Kiss you?” He looked confused. Why shouldn’t he be? She was. “Why?”
“I… need to know something.”
He drew back, hesitant, and she leaned toward him. He looked afraid. “Just one kiss,” she said with soft insistence. “Friend to friend.”
She drew closer to him, and he to her. Suddenly she saw his eyes go wide in what seemed unmistakeable alarm. His body stiffened, and then his head was snapping back and forth in a blur, like a radar dish gone amuck.
Before she could say anything else, before she could ask him what the hell his problem was, the plate-glass restaurant window shattered and a car hurtled directly at them.
XXII
Sometimes we have to be steady and give up the thing we want the most.
When Aunt May had said that to him, Peter’s first thoughts had flown to Mary Jane. If he was going to return to action as Spider-Man—if he was going to fulfill the hero’s role that so many expected of him—then that meant sacrificing his life with her.
That problem, however, had seemed to have been solved. Even when Spider-Man had flatly been a thing of the past, Mary Jane had made clear to him that they would never be anything more than friends… and quite possibly not even friends. Somehow, that knowledge took the edge off Peter’s decision.
So when Mary Jane had called him, told him it was an emergency, he had gone to meet her purely in the spirit of trying to salvage their friendship. Even if they weren’t to be lovers, at the very least he wanted to have her in his life somehow. He had few enough friends as it was.
On the trip over, he’d wondered what the problem was. His first guess was that it had something to do with Harry. It seemed as if there was always trouble with Harry. Or perhaps she was sick, or owed money and was too embarrassed to tell her fiancé. All sorts of possibilities occurred to him—except the one that Mary Jane confessed to him across the table in the restaurant.
His first reflex was to jump for joy.
His second was that Mary Jane Watson had the worst timing in the world.
His third was that, no, she only had the second-worst timing. Peter himself was the grand master of being out of step with the world around him.
Of all the lies, all the deceits he’d perpetrated in his pursuit of trying to do the right thing, the biggest whopper he’d ever uttered was when Mary Jane had asked if he loved her. The question came at the end of a conversation that had been like a root canal of the soul. Here he had been coming on, full steam ahead, trying to win her back… and the moment she had reciprocated, then, like a sadistic puppeteer, he had cut the strings.
There couldn’t be any doubt. He had to seem like the biggest jerk who ever lived. The most cruel, the most insincere. He fully expected her to reach across the table, smack him in the face as hard as she could, and storm out of his life once and for all.
Instead, she wanted to kiss him.
Kiss him? Was she insane?
Was he?
He’d tried to pull back, knowing that if he kissed her, that would be it. It was all over. The lyrics of the “The Shoop Shoop Song” flittered through his mind. If she wanted to know if he loved her so, it would really be in his kiss. Cloth might mask his face, but there was no way he could mask his heart through that sort of intimate contact.
He clenched his hands under the table, trying to will himself away from there, and yet he stayed rooted to the spot. She drew nearer, and the scent of her perfume, of her, was so thick he thought he would drown in it.
Abruptly, the world slowed to a crawl, but it wasn’t because of Mary Jane.
His spider-sense was kicking in.
Instinctively, he looked this way and that, snapping his head around. Mary Jane seemed frozen in time, a perplexed look on her face that was almost comical, and suddenly there it was. He didn’t need spider-sense to see it. A blind man could have seen it. A car was rocketing through the air straight toward the plate-glass window, and Peter’s first thought was that some driver had lost control of the vehicle. Two things disabused him of that: First, there was no driver. Second, the car was angling downward. Someone, or something, had thrown it.
For Peter Parker, thought was action. He dove for Mary Jane the split second that the car came crashing through the window. He grabbed her up, moving so quickly that M.J. still seemed frozen to him, and at the same instant spotted a waitress paralyzed in fear as the vehicle careened toward her.
With Mary Jane slung under one arm like a sack of laundry, Peter brought his free arm up and squeezed his fingers into his palm without thinking. There was no time for second-guessing, no moment to remember that he’d had trouble spinning webs before. Lives other than his were on the line, and dwelling on his personal difficulties was just an unaffordable luxury.
As easily as if there’d never been a problem at all, a ball of webbing fired out from his wrist and struck th
e waitress, knocking her off her feet and away from the oncoming car.
Peter had accomplished the feat while still in midair. Now he slammed to the ground with Mary Jane and desperately rolled to the side, just avoiding having the car’s back tire run over his face. The vehicle fishtailed, and then crashed to a halt at the back of the restaurant.
Patrons were running around, screaming, waving their arms, and at least two were on their cell phones. No doubt calling their attorneys. It was fascinating to see how different people dealt with an emergency.
Peter helped Mary Jane to her feet. She was looking around, dazed, clearly unsure of what the hell had just happened. In the distance, Peter could swear he heard a faint boom and wondered if a random T-Rex had gone astray on the way to Jurassic Park. Or perhaps he’d missed a memo letting him know the Hulk was dropping by.
“Peter! Peter, what’s happening?!” demanded a befuddled Mary Jane, and then there was another impact, louder than the first, then another. Approaching thunder? Trucks running over metal plates in the road? No, it was far too steady, too regular.
There was no longer the slightest doubt in Peter’s mind. It was Doc Ock, and this wasn’t just any house call.
He glanced around desperately, trying to find a fast way out of the restaurant. There was none. The front door was packed with frantic customers, and the rear exit was blocked by the car.
Peter held Mary Jane closer, and suddenly a fire hydrant directly in front of the restaurant was smashed aside. Water geysered up from it, and then a tentacle ripped aside what was left of the restaurant wall. There went any faint hope on Peter’s part that Ock’s presence here was merely coincidence.
Doc Ock looked down from on high like a malevolent dark god, held suspended there by his tentacles. “Peter Parker,” he fairly purred, “and the girlfriend. Took my advice, did you? Let me guess: The poetry did the trick, right?”
Mary Jane gaped at Peter. “You told me you’d been reading poetry—because he suggested it?”
“He wasn’t nuts at the time,” Peter said defensively, and then he winced. “No offense, Doctor.”
“The truth hurts, but I endure,” said Ock sadly.
“How… how did you—?”
“Know you were here?” Ock grinned down at him. “My babies are multitalented. This entire city’s communications system lives and dies on fiber optics, which my tentacles are easily able to plug into.”
“You tapped my phone line?” When Ock nodded, Peter felt his cheeks flush with anger. “How could you, Doctor?”
“I beg your pardon? You said it yourself: ‘Nuts.’ Remember?” He pointed at himself and his smile grew wider. “Once I knew for certain you were home, I was going to come and find you… but then this little lady called. When you made your date, I knew I couldn’t let the opportunity pass.”
“What opportunity?” asked Peter, trying to figure out some way to cope with this disaster that wouldn’t advertise his secret to the world. “What do you want?”
A tentacle snapped out. Peter could have dodged it, but the speed required for that would certainly snare Ock’s attention, leading to questions that Peter really didn’t want to have asked. So he let it grab him around the neck, yanking him closer to Ock’s face.
“I want you to find your friend Spider-Man,” he said tightly. “Tell him to meet me at the West Side clock tower at three o’clock.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
Doc Ock looked unimpressed by Peter’s claim. “Find him, or I’ll peel the flesh,” he nodded toward Mary Jane, “off her bones.”
“If you lay one finger on her…” Peter snarled.
“You’ll do what?” Ock said challengingly.
And suddenly Peter didn’t give a damn about his secret. Doc Ock’s face was only a few feet away. Peter could end the madness right here, right now. He drew back his fist, and then one of Ock’s tentacles whipped around before he could move. It knocked him back viciously, sending him slamming into what was left of the back wall of the restaurant.
The flying car had taken out most of its supports, and now, with the impact of Peter’s body, the entire structure tumbled down upon him. Seconds later, he was buried.
From beneath the rubble, he heard a loud, angry string of curses come from Ock. Perfect. Let him think I’m dead. Then maybe he’ll leave me alone, and Mary Jane can—
It was at that moment that he heard a scream, and a cry of “Put me down!” From somewhere nearby, in the hazing blur that was Peter’s consciousness, that voice was easy to identify. The blur cleared as Peter realized just what had happened: Doc Ock had grabbed Mary Jane and was carting her off, laughing all the while.
Mary Jane? Why Mary Jane? Had Ock realized that Peter was Spider-Man and was trying to push him into action? No, that couldn’t be it. Ock had all the cards, and had clearly won the arms race. He had no reason to be coy. Coy just didn’t work when you had four metal tentacles and a streak of megalomania on par with that of Napoleon.
Desperately, Peter began to shove at his entombment. It wasn’t easy. He felt as if he were trying to relocate the moon using a small plastic spoon. He had no clue how long it took him: probably seconds, although it seemed as if hours were dragging past.
Then he shoved aside a broken beam and realized that his hand had emerged from the pile and was grasping air. Unfortunately he couldn’t breathe through his hand. He needed to surface, and fast. He gathered his wits, his concentration, and his rapidly returning spider-strength, focused, and then smashed upward. Debris consisting of two-by-fours, bricks, and plaster flew in all directions. Seconds later Peter was standing.
It was a hell of an accomplishment, all things considered. His clothes were torn and his lip was bleeding. None of that mattered, though, because he realized his strength was flooding back into him. It had begun with lifting Aunt May’s desk, and now all his missing strength and more was at his command.
In his eyes there was the gleam of a hunter.
He dashed into the street and scanned the area around the restaurant. There was no sign of either Ock or Mary Jane outside the restaurant.
It didn’t matter. He would find them both, because he was sick and tired of having deranged people threaten those whom he loved the most.
Back in the wreckage of the restaurant, Peter found a napkin and a pen, and quickly scribbled a note on the napkin before shoving it in his pocket. Nearby was a sports clothing store with a smashed-in window, courtesy of one of Ock’s tentacles. A soiled ski mask lay on the ground. He fired off a web-line, snagged the ski mask, yanked it toward him, and caught it easily. He pulled it over his head, thinking, Back to basics, and sprinted toward the nearest building. There was no time to be subtle: He fired a web-line, grabbed it, and sent himself flying heavenward with the confidence of old.
Pedestrians had been too caught up in the destruction to notice his snagging of the ski mask, but when he launched himself toward the rooftops, it grabbed everyone’s attention. There were shouts and outcries of “That’s gotta be Spider-Man!” and even, “Get him!” But he couldn’t tell whether it was a call for him to nail Doc Ock or whether someone actually thought they could apprehend Spider-Man himself in some way.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except saving Mary Jane and putting an end to Ock’s rampage. Whether Ock was under the influence of the arms, or actually piloting the boat, Peter didn’t care.
All he knew was that Doc Ock wasn’t getting away with this. Not on his watch. Ock wanted Spider-Man? Perfect. That was exactly what he was going to get.
It had taken him half an hour door-to-door to get from his apartment to the coffee shop via subway. From the coffee shop uptown, covering forty blocks via web, it took him ten minutes… and that was with being cautious. He landed on the wall directly outside J. Jonah Jameson’s office. Through the window, he heard Robertson and Jameson talking.
“… police still have nothing on the whereabouts of your son’s fiancée. Sorry, Jonah.”
Bad news certainly traveled fast.
“It’s all my fault,” said Jameson, and for the first time in his life, Peter actually felt some degree of empathy for him. Both of them were worried about Mary Jane, although for very different reasons. Still, for all the sins that could be laid at the doorstep of J. Jonah Jameson, Peter couldn’t figure out how Ock abducting Mary Jane was remotely Jonah’s fault.
But the next words in the conversation made it clear. “I drove him away.”
“And he’s the only one who could have stopped Doc Ock,” said Robbie.
Son of a—! They were talking about Spider-Man.
He suddenly felt like Tom Sawyer, hiding in the vestibule during his own funeral and hearing all the nice things being said by everyone who had deplored him in life.
He peered through the window. His costume was hanging nearby, on display. Jameson, his head sagging, had his face in his hands; Robertson was next to him, his back to the costume, a hand resting on his boss’ shoulder. It was perfect positioning, and would likely remain that way for perhaps a second or two. But that was all the time Peter would need.
He leaned in and snagged the costume, yanking it out of the office even as Jonah continued to “eulogize” him.
“Spider-Man was a hero,” Jonah said mournfully. “I just couldn’t see it.”
Aw, man, and me without my tape recorder, thought Peter, as he pulled the napkin from his pocket and webbed it to the spot vacated by the costume. The entire process had taken less than the blink of an eye. He was already scuttling up the wall as Jonah continued, “He was a…”
The pause was enough to telegraph it to him: Jonah must have turned around.
“Thief!” came Jonah’s outraged bellow, confirming it. He’d discovered that his prize trophy was gone, replaced by a note that read, “Courtesy, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”
Peter didn’t slow down, continuing his climb while Jonah’s howling went on at length. “A criminal! He stole my suit! He’s a menace to the entire city! I want that wall-crawling insect prosecuted! I want him strung up by his webs! I want Spider-Man!”