by Stuart Moore
The Avengers scene vanished, replaced by footage of the recent press conference. Spider-Man watched as his own image yanked off his mask, flinching at a thousand camera flashes. Holo-Tony put a protective arm on Holo-Peter’s shoulders, nodded at him warmly.
Spidey scrolled back through the file. He found himself watching a record of his own career, in reverse order. His appearance at the Stamford disaster, wearing his new costume. Tony asking him to join the Avengers. Clearing himself, at long last, with the New York City Police Department. Confronting J. Jonah Jameson, in Jameson’s office, about the publisher’s libelous editorials. Fighting Venom, Hammerhead, Silvermane, Kraven, the Vulture.
Tony’s records were impressively thorough. A strange sensation ran through Spidey’s stomach; he felt flattered, but also somehow violated.
There was one final image in the file. A still picture, two-dimensional and faded. A little boy with thick glasses smiled up as a man hung a medal around his neck. The medal read LITTLE SCIENCE WHIZ FAIR—FIRST PLACE. The man had gray hair, a meticulously tailored suit over his strong frame, and a stern look on his face.
Spider-Man leaned forward, frowning. The boy was himself, at age six or so. But the man…? He double-clicked the figure.
HOWARD ANTHONY WALTER STARK.
Behind the blank lenses, Spider-Man’s eyes went wide. Tony’s father.
Spider-Man had forgotten that award, the very first he’d ever won for science. And he’d certainly forgotten the man who gave it to him.
But Tony hadn’t.
“Peter? Your tentacle is tapping a hole in my chair.”
Spider-Man leapt up, startled. He reached out and touched the computer screen. The hologram vanished.
Tony stood, in full Iron Man gear, at the entrance to the workshop. A curved ramp led up and out, allowing him to make quick aerial entrances and exits.
“Didn’t see you there, boss.”
Iron Man took two cautious, almost mechanical steps into the room. “I don’t remember inviting you into my workshop, Peter.”
“Sorry. I had to see you.”
Iron Man stopped, spread his arms. “Here I am.”
His chestplate glowed with power.
Spider-Man walked up to him, held up a hand. “Look—”
“Why don’t you sit back down and say what you came to say.” It wasn’t a question.
Spidey felt a flash of anger. He’s doing that thing with his voice. The volume’s turned up, and the frequency bites into your brain. Makes you want to obey him.
“It won’t take long,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving the Avengers.”
Tony’s eyes flared red. “I see.”
“I’m really grateful to you for, for everything. But locking heroes up in the Negative Zone? Killing Bill Foster?”
“Thor reacted like a police officer, Peter. He was threatened, he responded with deadly force. But Bill Foster was a friend of mine…do you really think I’m going to let something like that happen again?”
“No! No, not if you can help it. But you’re in over your head, Tony.”
“What do you suggest we do with the unregistered super-people? Lock them up with regular prisoners? They’d be out again in fifteen minutes.”
“No, of course not. But…do we have to lock them up at all?”
“Here’s what you need to understand, Peter.” Tony whirled on him, fists clenched. “There are forces within S.H.I.E.L.D., and more importantly within the federal government, who want nothing more than to outlaw superhumans. Absolutely and completely.”
“Get—”
“The compromise we offered them was regulating our behavior. Voluntarily, and according to a plan I would administer. Because there’s no going back to the old days, Peter. That was never on the table.”
“Get out of my way, Tony.”
“What are you planning to do, Peter?” Tony stood before him now, tall and imposing, all weapons systems glowing. “Go on TV again, recant your support for Registration? Maybe join Captain America’s band of traitors?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“You little idiot.” Even through the armor, Spidey could hear the heat in Tony’s voice. “Do you really think you can just quit all this, go back to your old life? Everyone knows who you are now. What will you do for money? What about Aunt May?”
Rage boiled up inside Peter Parker. He punched Tony with all his strength, a superhuman blow that dented the armored figure’s chestplate. Tony flew through the air, shattering a computer console, and slammed into the wall.
“Aunt May,” Spider-Man snarled, “is far, far away from you.”
Tony raised his hand and fired a repulsor ray. Spider-sense flared in Spidey’s brain, but too late. The ray slammed into him, knocking him to the ground and taking his breath away.
“I trusted you, Peter.” Tony’s voice was quieter now. “I took you under my wing. I gave you everything. This is how you repay me?”
A second repulsor ray blasted out, then a third. But Spider-Man was on his feet now, leaping and dodging, twisting his arms backward to propel himself down the wall. “Nope,” he said. “This is.”
Spider-Man leapt straight toward Tony—
“Emergency passcode: Delta Delta Epsilon,” Tony said.
—and Spider-Man froze in midair. All his joints felt suddenly paralyzed, unresponsive. He clattered painfully to the floor, crashing down hard on one shoulder.
He looked around, dazed. He’d landed among an array of Iron Man helmets: red, gold, silver, white, some with fins or extra weapon mounts. When he looked up, Tony loomed over him like Zeus looking down from Olympus.
“Peter,” he said. “What kind of an engineer would I be to hand over a suit as powerful as yours without building in a safeguard? To make sure it couldn’t be used against me, its creator?”
Spidey struggled for breath.
“Listen,” Tony continued. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to run. You’re already registered; the hard part is finished. I’m willing to forget about this little tantrum.”
Spider-Man gasped, then spoke five words aloud. Too quietly to be heard, he realized.
“What was that?”
“I said…passcode: Whatever A Spider Can.”
Spider-Man whirled on his side, almost too fast to see. Raised an arm and shot webbing up into Tony’s face, blocking his lenses.
“What kind of a science whiz would I be not to figure out and nullify your override—boss?”
Again, Spidey reached out and slammed both fists into Tony’s startled figure. A killing blow, the kind he would never use against an ordinary foe. But this, he realized grimly, is one of the most powerful men on Earth. In more ways than one.
Tony crashed backwards, clawing at the webbing on his faceplate. Reached out with both repulsors, firing wildly. Spider-Man weaved and dodged, scuttling along the wall, past a freestanding equipment shelf. Making his way toward the ramp that led to the emergency exit.
Then the inner door burst open with an explosive crash. Spider-Man turned to look, momentarily startled.
A platoon of S.H.I.E.L.D. shock troops, in full-body armor, dashed into the room, their faces hidden by bulletproof, opaque visors. Their leader turned his head toward Tony, who struggled to his feet, slowly burning the webbing off his face with a low-power repulsor ray.
Spider-Man leapt toward the ramp that led to freedom. The S.H.I.E.L.D. leader pointed to him and yelled, “Down, Mister Stark! We got him!”
A hail of gunfire drowned out Tony’s response. Spider-Man had no time to dodge; the bullets struck him head-on. His armored costume kept them from entering his flesh, but they stabbed against his arms, legs, torso, knocking the breath out of him. He leapt through the air, twisted wildly, and fired off both web-shooters at random.
Then he was running up the ramp, jumping and bouncing off the corridor walls. Bullets continued to lance into his back and calves, knocking him off-balance, punching little holes
in his suit. Every joint, every muscle, every inch of his skin stung. He stumbled once and slammed his shoulder painfully against the wall.
But he kept moving. It was the only way to survive.
Slowly his consciousness receded, leaving only instinct. As if from a long distance away, he heard Tony Stark’s metallic voice yell, “Stop! Hold your fire!”
Then he came to a large hatch, left slightly ajar after Tony’s entrance. Spider-Man wrenched it open and launched himself outside. The cold night air wafted over him, shocking him awake. He hung in midair for an instant, then reached out to cling to the outside wall of the building. He breathed hard, letting the noise of the city wash over him.
Inside, footsteps clomped up the ramp. Spidey slammed the hatch shut and webbed up the seams, sealing it tight. Then he started down the side of the building, toward the street far below.
Get to a manhole, he told himself. Just stay conscious till then. If you can reach the sewers, you’ll be safe.
But he knew, deep inside, that he was kidding himself.
Peter would never be safe again.
TONY Stark raised both hands, aimed repulsor rays at the hatch, and blasted it open. Bolts splintered, webbing flew apart. The door exploded open, hanging loose on one hinge.
Tony thrust his head outside, looked downward. Something was climbing down the wall, dodging and scuttling from side to side, moving closer to the sidewalk far below. Light from a streetlamp glinted off of its metallic, inhuman form. Only then did Tony recognize it as Peter.
What have I done to him? Tony thought. What have I done to all of them?
He issued a mental command: MAGNIFY IMAGE. His armor hesitated—no more than a microsecond, but worrisome nonetheless. Then his vision zoomed out and down, centering automatically on Spider-Man. The wall-crawler’s mask was torn, his mesh suit dotted with dents; blood dripped from his chin. He touched down unsteadily on the sidewalk, ducked low, then sprinted toward a manhole.
Tony tensed to leap, issued a warm-up command to his boot-jets. A dozen alerts flashed before his eyes: BOOT-JET EFFICIENCY 56%. ARMOR INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. VISION SYSTEMS 72%. JOINT/MOTIVE SYSTEMS COMPROMISED BY FOREIGN LIQUID.
Spider-Man’s webbing. It had spread all through his armor, gumming up all the mechanical systems. Tony swore quietly. If only I’d redesigned the damn webbing when I built the rest of his suit.
He’d have to change to a spare Iron Man suit before going after Peter. If there was still a suit left intact in the workshop.
He turned, trudged back down the ramp. Dust hovered everywhere, and the cordite smell of spent shells covered the dull odor of burning electronics.
The workshop was a disaster. Shattered computers, broken Iron Man suits, workbenches and power packs cracked and dented everywhere. Hundreds of thousands’ worth of damage, Tony thought. Maybe millions.
Maria Hill stood speaking to the S.H.I.E.L.D. platoon leader. She wore tight black fatigues, body armor, and sunglasses, but no helmet. She turned toward Tony, her mouth twisted in disdain.
“So. Your pet insect has abandoned the hive.”
“Arachnid,” Tony said.
“What?”
“Not insect, arachnid. Nothing. Never mind.” Tony crossed to a cabinet riddled with bullet holes. “I’m going after him. Assuming your men haven’t destroyed all my equipment.”
“Excuse us for trying to save your life.”
He bent down to touch a cabinet lock—and stumbled. Nearly fell.
“I don’t think you’re going anywhere,” Hill said. “Sergeant?”
A burly S.H.I.E.L.D. agent bent down to catch him. Tony waved him off, angry. “I’m all right.”
“I think you’ve got a busted knee. Maybe worse.”
She was right, he realized. The armor was holding him up, preventing him from realizing the extent of the damage. Spider-Man had a rep as one of the most powerful superhumans on Earth; that was one reason Tony had recruited him in the first place. Now he had firsthand proof.
Hill touched a comm-button on her shoulder. “Director Hill, authorization alpha,” she said. “Activate Project Thunderbolt.”
“No,” Tony said.
“Operatives Four and Six. Sending coordinates now. Target: Spider-Man.”
“No! I’ve got this—” He stumbled, slumped into a chair.
“With respect, Stark: You do not have this.” Hill loomed over him, her lip curled in contempt. “Nor do you command S.H.I.E.L.D. This is my call.”
Tony slumped in defeat. He lifted his helmet, looked up at her with his naked eyes. “Don’t hurt him.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t put another death on your bleeding-heart conscience. If I can help it.”
“You won’t put another death on our conscience. At all.” He rose to his feet, glared at her. “The Registration movement does not need that kind of publicity.”
“I’m sorry your little arachnid disappointed you, Stark. Mentoring is a bitch.”
She snapped her fingers. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent appeared at her side, holding a comm device with a USB cord hanging off it. “Now. Shall we watch the show? There’s got to be a video screen still working, somewhere in this mess.”
FIVE minutes later, the dust had thinned and an area of the floor had been cleared of debris. The workshop’s holoprojectors were trashed, but a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent stood tuning in a blurry picture on a flatscreen. Another agent set out folding chairs around the screen. Tony sat in shorts and a work shirt while a S.H.I.E.L.D. medic taped up his knee.
The agent looked up from the flatscreen. “We’re go.”
Hill touched her shoulder-comm. “This is a sixty-minute trial only,” she said. “Invisible mode essential. Operation Thunderbolt is still top secret. Are all nanosanctions in effect?”
“Yes, Director.”
“Location trace active.”
On the screen, a map appeared, showing the winding maze of Manhattan’s underground sewer system. Two blips labeled 4 and 6 moved swiftly along the tunnels.
“I’ve got the T-bolts locked,” the agent said, “but Spider-Man’s deactivated the GPS tracker in his suit. Pulling up a best guess now.” A red-and-gold blip began to flash, showing Spidey’s approximate location, several twists and turns ahead of the other blips.
Hill smiled. “I knew we couldn’t trust that guy.”
“Don’t sound so happy about it.” Tony glared. “I don’t need to remind you what the Thunderbolts are, Hill. Super villains.”
“Former super villains. Who have been duly registered with the government and trained in an intensive crash course. They’ve been chipped, tagged, and injected with nanomachines that allow us to control their behavior absolutely.”
Tony frowned. “Like dogs.”
“Wild dogs.” She gestured at the screen, at the moving dot that indicated Spider-Man’s position. “And I don’t see a lot of difference between them and him.”
No, Tony thought. You wouldn’t.
The screen shifted to a jerky video image of the sewer pipe’s interior. Dark lighting and old incandescent bulbs were spaced far apart along the walls. Steeply curved walls slid past as the camera moved; water splashed up from the floor.
“Both operatives have cameras mounted on their uniforms,” Hill explained. “That’s Operative Six’s camera. Agent, punch up the dossier on him.”
A still image appeared in the corner of the screen: a fearsome figure in spandex and metal mesh, with a flaming pumpkin-head and a terrible grin. Lettering beneath it read:
Subject: Steven Mark Levins
Aliases: JACK O’LANTERN
Group Affiliation: none
Powers: body armor, 360-degree vision, wrist blasters, assorted grenades
Power Type: artificial
Current Location: New York, NY
On the main video, the sewer pipe opened up onto a long, straight tunnel. Up ahead, in the distance, something splashed in the water.
“Operative Six?” Hill said.
�
��I hear you, sexy.” Jack O’Lantern’s voice was low, cruel, and not a bit winded by his long trip through the sewers. “I think we got ’im.”
“Roger, Thunderbolts. You are clear to engage.”
Tony tensed. Leaned forward, staring at the screen.
The camera lurched to the right, and a second figure swung into view. A lanky man in purple boots and a pointed hood, with blue mask and sharp pointed teeth.
“Operative Four.” Hill gestured to the agent, and another profile appeared in the corner of the screen.
Subject: Jody Putt
Aliases: THE JESTER
Group Affiliation: none
Powers: assorted toy and “joke” gimmicks (potentially lethal)
Power Type: artificial
Current Location: New York, NY
Jester turned toward the camera and grinned. “I got this one,” he said. He reached into a satchel and pulled out a small plastic doll with a comically angry expression on its face. Wound its crank twice, three times, and set it down in the water.
The toy took off down the tunnel on tiny rockets, skimming across the sewer water.
“Switch to Jester’s camera,” Hill said.
The image shifted to a view of Jack O’Lantern, crouched and dangerous atop a flying disk, hovering just above the water. He reached out and grabbed Jester, pulling him aboard the disk, and together they sped off down the sewer tunnel after the windup toy.
Jester’s camera view shifted forward. The figure of Spider-Man zoomed into view, frantically splashing his way away from them, through the murky water. His suit was torn, the tentacles hung useless now. Part of his face showed through the torn remains of his mask.
The toy whizzed into view, heading straight toward Spider-Man. He turned, startled.
“What the—”
Then the toy exploded. A huge fireball filled the screen.
Tony whirled toward Hill. “You said he wouldn’t be killed!”
“You think that could kill him?” She rolled her eyes. “Back to Operative Six camera.”
On screen, the dust slowly cleared. Spider-Man sat crouching in filthy water now, coughing. Above him, the tall figure of the Jester gloated wildly.