Marvel's SPIDER-MAN

by David Liss

  “It’s the Web-Head!” Jameson shouted to a group of police officers. “Shoot him.”

  The cops looked unsure, confused. Watanabe was talking to some of them, trying to keep them from drawing their guns. She had no idea what was going on, and must have thought he’d lost his mind. He’d have given her a heads-up, but she’d have tried to talk him out of this, and she might even have taken steps to prevent him from going ahead.

  “I understand the mayor—hey there, Norman!—is thinking about naming Fisk the commissioner of finance. That may not be the smartest idea.” He scanned the room for Bingham, but still didn’t see him. “That’s really all I wanted to say, so I’ll stop disturbing your evening… except to ask that anyone here who might be the Spider-Man impersonator, please step forward. If you’re the one going around trying to smear my name by hurting people, committing murder, and generally being a jerk, come on. Show yourself. Don’t be shy.”

  “You’re the imposter!”

  And there he was, rolling in from an upper balcony, flipping to land on an overhanging ledge.

  “I’m the real Spider-Man!” Bingham shouted as he thumped his chest. “The Spider-Man whose hands are dipped in blood!”

  “One of us has spent the last eight years trying to help this city!” Spider-Man announced. “The other one is dipped in blood. So let’s see a show of hands. Which one is the imposter?”

  “I told you that jerk was a fake,” he heard a cop say.

  “It’s not an imposter,” Jameson shouted back. “There’s more than one of them. They’re breeding!”

  As people started to talk and the volume rose, Spider-Man had to tune them out. Here was the man who had killed all those innocent people, had killed his friend. Anika was dead because of him. It hurt less with the passing of time, but the anger hadn’t gone away—not entirely. And that was a good thing.

  Bingham was insane, yes—dangerously so—and it would be up to a court of law to decide what a fit punishment was. It would be up to Spider-Man to hand him over to the authorities, and that wasn’t likely to be easy. He needed to keep a clear head.

  Bingham made his move, swinging toward his perch on the ceiling. As he did people started to panic, and there was a rush for the doors. That made it harder for the cops to react.

  Spider-Man’s impulse was to dodge out of the way, but he couldn’t do that. He had to get in close and—as unsavory as it sounded—search for the thumb drive. He was going to get hurt, and there was no way to avoid it. He was going to have to deal with the pain.

  It was a good thing he had a lot of experience.

  * * *

  STANDING next to Fisk, Norman Osborn permitted himself a smile. “On second thought, Wilson, I don’t think I’ll be offering you that position.”

  “It was you all along, wasn’t it?” Fisk sought to control his expression. “You sent him to me as a spy.”

  “I just put him in your way, and you snapped him up,” the mayor replied. “But I knew what you would be dealing with. I knew he was unstable. It was a calculated move. Either he’d do what I told him to do, or if not, he would destroy you from the inside. I don’t know how this will end with him, but your hold over me is done.”

  “He still has a copy of the files,” Fisk told him. “You’d better pray I don’t regain control of it.”

  “I don’t pray,” Osborn said. “Praying is for people who leave things to chance.” He glanced around the room, taking in the chaos. People ran for cover. They knocked each other down as they tried to force their way to the exits. Police officers drew their guns, but had no idea what to do next. There was Jameson, screaming at anyone who would listen. Cameras flashed as reporters took pictures. TV reporters stood in front of their cameramen and tried to remain still as they were jostled out of their frames.

  “You imagine yourself as someone who sees every move in advance,” Osborn said, “but I’m afraid you’ve been outclassed. If you’d wanted to do business, Fisk, we could have done business, but you had to try to force my hand. That was a mistake.”

  “No matter what you think,” Fisk told him, “we are not finished. You’ve crossed a line from which there will be no retreating.”

  Osborn gazed at the pandemonium around him and remained as placid as if he were gazing at sculptures in a museum.

  “Nice party,” he added.

  * * *

  THEY met mid air, and Spider-Man was ready. At least he thought he was ready.

  He had some ideas about general readiness, and it was all great inside his head, but to be honest with himself, he had no clue what he was doing. The first hint he had was when—as they hurtled toward each other—Blood Spider punched him in the face.

  Spider-Man rolled with it, minimizing the impact, but it still—what was the word?—hurt. Yes, that was it. It hurt. A lot.

  This is still the best plan we’ve got, he reminded himself as pain exploded inside his head.

  He’d learned a lot from fighting Echo. He’d learned about his own style, how he relied on moves and patterns he hadn’t even known were in his lexicon. Then he’d learned how to force himself to think differently, not like himself. It was shadow boxing, so he’d had to find a way to trick his shadow.

  Bingham wasn’t Echo, though. He could do what Spider-Man did, but he’d never studied his moves. He wanted to be Spider-Man, but he hadn’t taken the time to learn how to be Spider-Man.

  It was time for a lesson.

  Even as they plummeted toward the ballroom floor, Bingham squared his shoulders, readied his fists. He wanted not simply to fight, but to brawl. He wanted to punch his enemy in the head, in the torso. He wanted the two of them to square off.

  Spider-Man decided to give him what he wanted.

  They landed on their feet, facing each other. The Web-Slinger’s jaw already felt swollen, but he ignored the pain. He raised his fists, like a boxer.

  Blood Spider’s head snapped to attention, fully alert, maybe for the first time. His webs shot out and snagged the real Spider-Man’s shoulders. A quick yank pulled the Web-Slinger forward, off balance. Blood Spider aimed another web toward the ceiling and shot upward, taking his enemy—the man whose existence was an insult—with him.

  Spider-Man felt a lurch in his stomach, the sudden ripple of being out of control, and calmed his mind to search for an anchor. An instant before he fired off his own webs, Blood Spider released him. He began to plummet downwards. Again he aimed, but before he could fire, Blood Spider barreled into him like a mid air football tackle, driving his shoulder into his opponent’s stomach.

  The breath shot out of him and then he hit the ground, hard. His lungs were already on the exhale, and Spider-Man found himself struggling for air. He coughed and almost vomited in his mask—never a good idea—as he tried to breathe again.

  All around, people gasped. Some fled, others moved closer. Cameras flashed while TV news crews turned their lights on the two masked men.

  “They’ll love watching you be destroyed!” Blood Spider cried as he struck Spider-Man in the face with a balled fist. Then again, and a third time.

  “You talk and you joke and pretend to be a hero,” Bingham railed, “but you haven’t got the guts to follow through. You knock your enemies down, and they get back up again. You want the world to play by your rules, but there are no rules. When the Blood Spider knocks you down, you’ll stay down.”

  Spider-Man was able to suck air into his lungs, but then pain blinded him as blow after blow landed on him. He reached out to the ground, trying to push himself up, but took another punch—this time to his temple—and stars erupted in his vision.

  He felt his arms start to go limp.

  No!

  This guy had stolen his name, but much more importantly he killed people, killed Anika, and now Blood Spider was going to beat him to death—in public. In front of MJ. In front of his aunt. They would take the mask off his body, and Aunt May would learn his secret.

  The plan—his ridiculous, impossibl
e plan—was all but forgotten as he struggled to remain conscious. As he struggled to strike back harder.

  Yes!

  He’d hardly been aware of it, but he was standing again. He’d hit back, and hard, too. His mind had drifted, but his body had taken over, and that gave him just enough to land a blow. Then another. Then it felt like someone had turned the lights on. Spider-Man hit Bingham again, and then again, and Bingham was staggering backward.

  He unleashed two strands of webbing into Blood Spider’s face and then pulled down, hard, slamming the man’s head into the floor. Bingham struggled. Spider-Man released the slack and slammed again.

  For Anika.

  For all the victims.

  He released a third time and then he saw MJ, across the ballroom, staring, open-mouthed. Was she worried that he was hurt, or that he was going to kill Bingham?

  Her face, what she saw in him, it was enough to make him stop. But he wasn’t there to kill Bingham.

  No, the Web-Slinger had a plan—a plan to save people, to protect the city, and to do it the right way. Spider-Man would outfight his enemies if he had to, but he would out-think them when he could. And he would use his powers responsibly, always using them to save lives, never taking them. That was the difference between the two of them.

  That was what it meant to be Spider-Man.

  He dropped his webs, and let Bingham get to his feet.

  “Ready to call it quits?” he asked.

  “Oh, we’re just getting started,” Blood Spider spat back.

  “No, we’re finishing up,” Spider-Man told him. “You took me by surprise before, but that’s the only way you could ever hope to beat me. A fair fight? You’ll go down every time.”

  “No,” Bingham hissed. “I am the Blood Spider.”

  “More like Bloody-Nose Spider, right now, I’m guessing.”

  With a roar of rage Bingham rushed toward him, but Spider-Man leapt easily out of the way. It was time to close the deal. The guy wanted a fight. Spider-Man would give it to him. Just not the way he wanted. He kept his distance, moving clockwise, careful to keep Bingham engaged.

  “If you think you can take me fairly,” the Web-Slinger said, “then let’s go. One-on-one, no tricks. We can decide, once and for all, who the real Spider-Man is.”

  “Yes,” Bingham said, his voice rising. “Yes, let’s see who’s stronger. Let’s see which of us is real.”

  “But it’s called prize fighting for a reason,” Spider-Man said as he circled his opponent. “There has to be a prize, right?”

  “What do you want?” Bingham responded. He sounded confused. “What could I give you, other than an end to your miserable life?”

  “Tempting, but I think we need something a little more interesting,” Spider-Man said. “Oh, I know—the thumb drive. If you’ve got it on you, we could fight for that. It seems like a pretty good prize. How’s that sound?”

  Bingham put a hand to his hip. Most likely he had an inner pocket there, but it was still kind of cringey. A second later he pulled out the drive and clutched it in his fist.

  “I’m glad I don’t have to touch that without gloves,” Spider-Man said.

  “We fight,” Blood Spider announced. “The winner takes it. The winner, which means you’ll never have it. Never. You can’t beat me.”

  “Dude, I’ve already beaten you. I just won. That’s not your thumb drive. I switched them while we were fighting.”

  Blood Spider paused and looked at the thing in his hand. Somewhere under the mask, Spider-Man was sure Bingham had to be squinting, trying to decide if he remembered what the drive looked like, and attempting to decide if it looked just like this.

  Could he be sure?

  Then it was gone.

  Echo leapt down from one of the balconies. She snatched the drive from Bingham’s hand, landed, rolled, and came back up again. Bingham turned to watch, frozen in place.

  “She forgot to say ‘yoink,’” Spider-Man observed. “So can I say it? Can I say ‘yoink’? I love a good ‘yoink’ moment.”

  Blood Spider spun and charged him.

  * * *

  THERE are cameras in the room, Echo told herself. People are watching. These images will be all over the news, so don’t grin like an idiot. She was a hero now, an ally of Spider-Man. That was something to take seriously. But she couldn’t stop herself. She did not want to.

  She grinned.

  Echo stepped forward, and came face-to-face with Fisk.

  His eyes were red and dark and hooded. He didn’t even seem to see the drive in her hand. He saw only a betrayal. Her first reaction was shame, but it was quickly followed by indignation, then anger. This was the man who killed her father. Who caused her to build her entire life on a lie.

  Echo was fast, but she wasn’t fast enough to dodge an attack she couldn’t see coming. His fist shot forward with an impossible ferocity. He was still, and then he was striking her in the face.

  She couldn’t avoid it, so she leaned back and away, avoiding the worst of it. That didn’t stop the pain. Being grazed by a speeding truck was better than a full-on hit, but it still hurt. She stumbled backward and the drive fell from her hand.

  That seemed to shock Fisk out of his fury.

  He looked at Echo. He looked at the drive.

  Pain shot from her face in electric sparks, but she put it away, compartmentalized it. It was just pain. Maybe a broken jaw, but mostly pain. Right now she had a second to react. People were watching them. They were likely shouting things, but she couldn’t take her attention away from Fisk. If he got hold of the drive, he would be in control again.

  He would never let himself be vulnerable again, either.

  Echo couldn’t let him have it, but to grab it, she would have to take her eye off her enemy, and Fisk knew it. She would be vulnerable, and if any man alive knew how to exploit a vulnerability, it was Wilson Fisk. If she tried to take it, she would lose it. She knew that with absolute certainty.

  The look in his eyes said that he knew it, too.

  “Checkmate,” he said. “You betrayed me and you lost.”

  Information was power. She knew that Spider-Man wanted desperately to know what Fisk had on Osborn. Whatever was on that drive was so explosive that Osborn had been willing to risk control of the city, rather than let it get out. Spider-Man would try to find another way.

  She wasn’t Spider-Man.

  Lunging forward, she drove her heel into the drive. She could feel the plastic crack under her shoe. Better it be lost, she thought, than in Fisk’s hands.

  “Upending the board,” she said with a grin. That sent a new wave of agony rippling across her jaw, but it was worth it. “That’s the countermove for a checkmate.”

  He lunged for her again, but this time the police were there, holding him back. Fully a half-dozen or more. He tried to shake them off, like they were little children, but there were too many. Enough that they could also turn their attention to her.

  Echo pivoted, saw a ledge, and leapt.

  * * *

  SPIDER-MAN circled Bingham, his fists raised.

  Bingham took an exploratory jab. Then another.

  “We’re not done,” he said between punches. “We have to fight to see who’s stronger. I don’t care about the thumb drive. I only care about beating you, about showing the world who is better.”

  “Yeah, but that’s your problem,” Spider-Man said. “I don’t go around trying to prove I’m better than anyone else. The only one I need to convince is myself.” He moved left, then right, keeping clear of Bingham’s powerful jabs. He needed to end this. A few carefully placed webs might stop this creep, but Bingham was fast. There was a good chance they’d miss and hit a bystander.

  Spider-Man shot off some strands toward his sparring partner’s feet but, as he feared, the Blood Spider was just too nimble.

  “You think we’re the same,” Blood Spider snapped.

  “It’s like you read my mind,” Spider-Man said, thinking not. “Do a
nother one.” Keep the guy talking.

  “We’re not the same. You’re not like me,” Bingham spat back, hardly seeming to hear his opponent’s words. “You can’t beat me in a fight, you’re not fast enough to use your webs, you’re not smart enough to figure out what I’m going to do next. So, what’s your plan, huh? Run away? Call it a draw? Then the next time I come back, put a few people in the ground, you’ll shrug and say you did what you could.”

  Spider-Man crouched and propelled himself into the air, aiming a devastating kick at Bingham’s chest, but the man had already moved. He reached out and tried to grab Spider-Man by the ankle, but thanks to his Spider-Sense, he was already twisting out of the way.

  “Maybe I’ll blow up another restaurant,” Bingham said, “just for fun.”

  He’s trying to mess with my head, Spider-Man thought, make me lose focus. And it was working. He felt the fury pumping through him, and it mixed with a heavy dose of frustration. This guy was cruel and violent and arbitrary. He hurt people because it made him feel powerful—and it had to stop.

  Easier said than done. Bingham was fast, he was strong, and he was agile. All of the things he boasted were true. Except the part about him being smarter. That definitely wasn’t true.

  And it was how he was going to end this.

  Spider-Man moved in for another punch, faking left and jabbing right. Bingham dodged it, just as he would have. Just like he’d predicted. Instead of putting his energy and focus on the jab, Spider-Man instead concentrated on the sweeping kick that hooked around from behind, knocking Blood Spider to his knees.

  That’s how it’s done, Spider-Man thought. He shot out another barrage of webs, trying to keep Bingham on the ground—but even off his balance, Blood Spider was too fast. He crabbed backward and side to side, eluding blast after blast. Then he was on his feet and charging forward.

  Bingham was furious. Spider-Man might be struggling to control his emotions, but Bingham didn’t even bother to try. He was all rage, and he was moving like a freight train.