by Peter David
“Eddie Brock, sir,” he introduced himself. “I’ve been wronged, and the woman I worship will have none of me. I don’t qualify as the perfect boyfriend, but… who does?”
Jesus didn’t answer. That was okay. What could he really have said? Eddie didn’t mind its being a one-way conversation. “I ask you, why do I have to suffer for everyone else’s imperfections? Why can’t I ever have what I want? What about me?” He thumped his chest. “What about Eddie? I try to do what’s right. I follow your rules. I obey the ‘thou shalt nots.’ I’m a decent person.” He raised his voice to get it above the organ music, which seemed to be getting louder. “I’m a decent person!”
Eddie frightened himself with his vehemence and the intensity of his emotions. He didn’t understand why it had come to this. Why no one else in the world was able to see him the way that he saw himself.
Never for a moment did he consider that he had brought his problems upon himself. Instead they had been forced upon him by a world that judged him and found him wanting without ever truly comprehending him.
“So I come to you today, humbled, humiliated, to ask of you but one thing.” He clasped his hands together so hard that he felt them going numb, but he didn’t care. Tears were starting to stream down his face, but he didn’t care about that either. Nor did he care about the voices of a choir—also recorded—that joined the organ music and got louder and louder, like a chorus of demented angels urging him onward, ever onward. His body trembling, praying harder than he ever had before, he begged for the only thing that would give his life any meaning…
“I want you to kill Peter Parker.”
The bell thundered to life overhead.
Peter staggered as the bell started to swing. It distracted him for only a moment, as he continued to pull at the costume. It fought back with a life of its own.
Parasite… dangerous… very dangerous … you didn’t
keep any, did you, Peter? All the words of Curtis Connors flew back at him, and he cursed himself for his stupidity, even as he continued to battle against the costume.
I want my life back! Give me my life back! Peter furiously thought, and the suit redoubled its efforts, seemingly fighting for its own life as well.
The bell clanged above them, deafening, and apparently it seemed to jolt the suit’s concentration. He felt it loosening slightly, felt its influence upon him starting to diminish. He was winning the contest of wills. I’ve got you now, you bastard, he thought grimly, not noticing that the black goo was starting to slip through a crack in the flooring.
Eddie Brock, heading out of the church, passed under the bell tower, which was situated above the front doors. The bell was clattering away high above him, and suddenly somehing fell on his shoulder with a thick splat.
Great. Pigeons are crapping on me. Thanks for answering the prayer, God.
He reached up to brush it off and saw that it wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen. At first glance it was akin to tar, but when he reached for it, it seeped into his shirt without a trace. He twisted around, thinking that maybe it had fallen to the floor, but no. Nothing there. Then another drop landed on his other sleeve. This time he never took his eyes off it as, once again, it soaked into his shirt and vanished.
What the hell?
He glanced upward, and there, high above, was the unmistakable form of Spider-Man. He was trying to peel his black costume off, and the damned thing was… leaking? No, it was oozing off him as if it was… alive… “Sonuvabitch,” muttered Eddie Brock.
It was as if Peter were peeling his own skin from his body. This was worse, far worse than that previous time. Both he and the symbiote were struggling for their lives, and no prisoners were being taken.
Between the clanging of the bell and the agony that was ripping through Peter’s head, it was all he could do not to pass out. But that wasn’t an option; if he did, he knew the symbiote would reassert itself, and next time he might never get it off him. He continued to peel it away, bit by bit, feeling as if he was starting to get some momentum, and so kept at it with growing determination. At one point, when his will started to flag, he mentally pictured Mary Jane being sent tumbling over a table by his hand—by its hand—and he increased his efforts.
Eddie Brock watched in fascination as a drop landed on his hand and then seeped into his skin. He staggered, his mind whirling with thoughts that were simultaneously his own, yet seemed to be coming from somewhere else, as if his own thoughts were magnified and heightened. It was like mainlining a particularly potent narcotic.
He wanted more, much more.
A drop descended from on high, straight toward his face. He opened his mouth and caught it on his tongue, like a snowflake, and swallowed it. It burned pleasantly, like a fine wine.
The shadows around him seemed larger, darker. He kind of liked it.
Spider-Man was screaming overhead. What a wuss. What a little pansy. He clearly wasn’t man enough to take what this… this whatever it was… had to give.
Eddie raised his arms over his head and started screaming sync with Spider-Man, making fun of him. But where Spider-Man’s stemmed from fear and pain, Eddie’s was a primal scream of fury against all the raw deals that the world had heaped upon his shoulders. He owed the world for all of that, and this was where he started dealing out the payback.
And Brock’s scream was changing as it continued. It was getting deeper with every passing moment, as more of the black goo poured down upon him, until his voice no longer sounded human. Instead it could have been a beast growling: a lion bellowing a challenge, or even a dinosaur from a primeval era unleashing a deafening roar designed to freeze its prey in its tracks.
Peter collapsed, sagging to the floor, his head whirling, the world spinning. It was gone. The creature was gone. He didn’t know where it had vanished to and, right now, couldn’t bring himself to care. He was more exhausted than he could ever remember, and he knew that if he allowed himself to rest for even a few moments, he would pass out. He didn’t dare take the chance, fearing that when he came to, he’d be right back where he started.
He pulled the Italian suit on, every move an exercise in agony. He didn’t bother to button the shirt, and he held the shoes rather than wear them. The bell had mercifully stopped ringing, but he could still hear it clanging away between his ears, and he hoped that he hadn’t done permanent damage to his hearing.
Climbing to the top of the bell tower, he paused there a moment, waiting for the dizziness to subside, then he fired a webline and swung away from the church. His spider-sense told him that no one was watching him, but he wouldn’t have cared if the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was looking on. He had to put as much distance between himself and the church as possible.
He would have to go back. He couldn’t leave that… that thing just slithering around. But he was going to be prepared. He would return with some sort containment equipment and be wearing armor if he had to—anything to make sure the creature didn’t take him over again.
Through the pelting rain, Peter made his way to his apartment and staggered in through the front door. With bleak amusement, he noted that the hinge had been repaired. He wondered if the shower had also been fixed. No better time to find out. His clothes were soaked from the inclement weather. He pulled them off, dumped them on the floor, and headed for the bathroom. Once there, he turned on the shower and discovered that, yes, the showerhead was now functioning properly.
At least the symbiote did me some good. Then he pictured Mary Jane’s stricken face once more and decided that no amount of household repairs was worth the grief that he had brought on.
He allowed the water to wash away his sins. Thank God it was over.
Eddie Brock headed toward Peter’s apartment and spotted his name on the mailbox. Apartment 501.
It was only a confirmation of what he already knew.
The black costume had been a part of Peter. Now it was part of Eddie Brock. What the suit knew, Eddie knew, and the suit knew qui
te a lot about its previous host.
Brock had initially been stunned to discover that Peter Parker was Spider-Man. The sheer audacity of that creep! Here Eddie had had to bust his ass to take pictures, and obviously all Parker had been doing was setting up a camera, taking pictures of himself in action, and laughing to himself as he collected paycheck after paycheck for self-portraits. To Eddie Brock, it was the final confirmation of the fundamental unfairness of the universe.
But after the shock had worn off, Eddie was pleased about this development. He had begged God to make sure that Peter Parker died, and God had answered his prayer in as efficient and direct a manner as Eddie could possibly have hoped.
He’d granted Eddie power, so much so that killing Peter Parker wouldn’t have been any fun if Parker had been a normal human. But because Peter Parker was what he was, Eddie could take genuine pleasure in smashing both Parker and Spider-Man in one shot.
If nothing else, it was a monumental time-saver.
Parker had left the front door of his apartment ajar. Eddie pushed it open gently and entered. He heard the shower running and ignored it. Instead he started going through the drawers. He found assorted clothes in most and a grand total of seven dollars in one. He went to the closet and found a couple of Spider-Man costumes hanging in it. They looked so sad, so useless, that pathetic red and blue.
A picture of a good-looking redhead was on the wall. Brock leaned forward and studied it with curiosity. Quite the looker, she was. He searched the pieces of Peter Parker’s thoughts that the symbiote had peeled away when it had departed its previous host and locked into the redhead’s identity. Mary Jane Watson. He immediately knew all that Peter knew about her.
He thought about when Spider-Man had been kissing Gwen. Knowing now that it had been Peter Parker, he wondered just how many beautiful women Parker felt the need to collect.
Eddie Brock could start collections as well.
He heard the shower go off and silently eased his way out of the apartment. Even if Peter hadn’t finished his shower, Brock would have been ready to leave. He had seen enough.
He wasn’t quite ready to attack Parker. Not yet. The symbiote wasn’t ready. He could sense it within him, still bonding with Eddie on a molecular level. It would take a little while longer, and when it was done… when Eddie Brock was ready…
All debts would be paid in full.
With interest.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE GATHERING WEB
THE SUN eventually punched through the cloud cover, but the day remained cold and dank. Nevertheless, Emma Marko had taken her daughter down to the local playground as she had promised.
Children were playing on the jungle gym and swing set and sandbox, but today Penny wasn’t especially energetic. Sure, she’d been excited enough about going over to the playground, but once there, she’d started feeling lethargic. Naturally, Emma didn’t force her to run around like a nut. Instead she sat next to her on a bench, reading to Penny from The Arabian Nights. Penny was bundled up against the cold, a baseball cap perched jauntily atop her head. Penny leaned against her mother, relaxing, and then Emma felt her stiffen. Then Penny was pointing and saying, “Look! There’s Daddy!”
Emma looked where Penny was indicating, praying the child was wrong. No such luck. Sure enough, there was Flint Marko, seated on a bench across the playground. He was watching them like some sort of stalker. He gave a tentative wave at being spotted, and even smiled, but Emma did not return it. Instead, scowling, she drew her daughter tightly to her and said, “I know your father made promises to you, but he’s always made promises he couldn’t keep. So don’t get your hopes up and don’t count on him for anything. He’ll only break your heart.”
“But he came back!” she said plaintively.
Penny looked back at her father, then reacted with surprise and confusion. Emma was likewise surprised to see that Flint was no longer there. Where did he go?
“Mama, my snow globe!”
What? The snow globe was back home, in Penny’s bedroom. Why would she be asking for it now? Then she understood what Penny was talking about.
A beautiful, ornate sand castle, similar to the one in Penny’s globe, had arisen in the middle of the sandbox. This one, though, was ten feet tall. It hadn’t been there seconds ago. Its existence was impossible, and that merely added to the aura of magic that surrounded it.
Penny slid off the bench and approached it before Emma could stop her. The child walked toward it, studying it, then cautiously touched it. She made a small fingerprint in the sand, then lay her palm flat against the surface to make a handprint.
Emma went to Penny and took her firmly by the hand, brushing the stray particles off her palm. Penny offered a token protest, but Emma ignored her, pulling her away from the sand castle… never even noticing the larger handprint that had magically appeared next to Penny’s.
Penny and Emma retreated into the distance, Flint Marko reformed himself from the sand castle and watched them go.
“Ahhh, the family.”
Marko spun and faced a figure leaning against a obscured by the shadows. The voice was soft and menacing. “The bulwark. I’ll bet money can solve your problems.”
“How did you find me?” demanded Marko.
“I sensed you,” replied the newcomer. He reached out and plucked invisible strings in the air. “I saw a particular vibration along a particular line that only I could see and fallowed it right to you.”
Marko had no idea what this guy was talking about, but at least he wasn’t making any aggressive move. That was probably a good thing. Forming the castle had taken a lot out of him. He was still recovering from having been a creature of mud; for a while he’d thought he would never be able to reconstitute himself. He might be ready for a fight in a while, but not at this very minute. “Do I know you?” he asked suspiciously.
“You should.”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“What you want: Spider-Man. Together he’s ours.”
Ah. This perked up Marko’s ears. Spider-Man had massively inconvenienced him; damn near killed him. He certainly wouldn’t mind seizing the opportunity to take that punk down. Whatever sympathy he’d felt for Spider-Man over his personal loss was long gone. Considering the grief that Spider-Man had caused him, returning some aggravation would be a pleasure.
“What’s the little girl’s name?” asked the stranger.
Marko’s eyes narrowed. “Penny.”
“Penny. How sweet.”
He tried to gauge whether this stranger presented a threat to his daughter and finally decided that he didn’t. At least not now. “What’s your plan? I’ll only go so far. And if you push me more, I’ll stomp you into the ground.”
“Oooh, I like that,” said the man, and he stepped from the shadows… and yet seemed to take the shadows with him. “Now you’re talking.”
Later that night, Peter Parker lingered across the street from Mary Jane’s apartment.
He had spent much of the day sleeping off complete exhaustion. Considering all that he had been through, it was understandable. Once he had awakened, he had gathered together containment equipment—large, clear containers that he could seal airtight—screwed up his courage, and returned to the church. He had searched it high and low, but that just simply confirmed what his spider-sense had already told him: the symbiote wasn’t there.
He chided himself over waiting so long, but what else could he have done? He checked out the surrounding neighborhood, but there remained no sign of it. Irritated and weary, he went home. He considered calling Gwen and trying to explain what the hell had happened the night before, but really… how could he possibly? Sorry, Gwen, I wasn’t myself, I was infested by an evil alien symbiote. Yeah. That was going to fly.
Gwen would just have to be a problem for another day. What about MJ, though? Everything that he had to say… how did one put that in a phone message? He knew he had to see her, and s
o he went over to her apartment building and prepared to march up to her door and…
And…
Peter remained where he was for half an hour, wrestling with the best way to approach it. He briefly regretted having parted company with the symbiote—it may have posed a number of problems for him, but leaving him indecisive was certainly not one of them.
Finally Mary Jane emerged from her apartment, ready for work. She adjusted her hair and glanced at her watch. Apparently she was running late, for she started scanning the street for a cab.
A taxi farther down the street started to angle toward her, then another cab)—which had been parked curbside with its sign atop reading: OFF duty—suddenly roared to life and cut directly across the street toward Mary Jane. She jumped, a little startled, as the cab farther down screeched to a halt to avoid slamming into the one that was now facing Mary Jane.
Taken slightly aback, Mary Jane nevertheless climbed into the back of the overly aggressive cab, pulling the door shut behind her. Moments later the taxi sped away into the night.
The cabbie who had unceremoniously been cut off wasn’t taking it lying down. He leaned out of the driver’s side window and rattled off a string of invective in a foreign language. Then he turned to Peter and demanded, “Did you see that? Did you see that?!”
Peter had, in fact, although he didn’t give it much thought.
What he had not seen was the cabbie in the taxi that had picked up Mary Jane. When Mary Jane had settled into the backseat, a leering Eddie Brock had turned in the seat and said, “Where to, ma’am?”
Nor did Peter see the body of the cab’s legitimate owner, since it had been dumped in an alleyway some blocks away.
Nor, worst of all, did his spider-sense tell him that anything was wrong, because the symbiote was now invisible to his spider-sense. If Eddie Brock had come up to Peter on a subway platform and tried to push him in front of an oncoming train, Peter would never have known about it until it was too late. So it was that Peter Parker went home, feeling that he hadn’t accomplished anything the entire day, and unaware that his day was only just beginning.