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***
-Sooner or later, eh? Well played, old chap.
I had mixed emotions. I couldn't understand how the conversation had turned this way when it had started out so sweet and romantic....
But like my dad and Uncle Ben taught me, you have to be careful with women. Because one second you think you understand everything, but logic and adequacy won out, only to fall off the cliff right into the abyss of female logic just a moment later with disappointment.
And right now I was sitting and wallowing in that abyss, looking through the glass of a public bus.
I did not feel disappointment and resentment, only if just a little.... Rather, I was being devoured by thoughts trying to construct a logical chain to pave the way for Gwen's musings.
The taste of tea and the home baking we had eaten in her kitchen lingered in my mouth. A nice, lammy atmosphere created by heart-to-heart talks, great company and a mood that was just creeping up.... And then the classic phrase that you hear all the time in sitcoms, comedies or big screen series.
"We need to take a break."
It was as if I had become a character in "Beverly Hills 90210," with teen drama and the same cliched plot twists.
-While. She probably watched them when she was a kid. They only stopped making them in the '00s.Sitting there with a face full of intelligence and Mr Bean-style thinking, I continued to stare out the window, feeling a mixture of resentment, acceptance and relief spreading in my chest. Usually, such interruptions didn't end well, at least for normal people.
Images of our alter egos immediately flashed through my mind, which was certainly not normal.
-Maybe it's for the best, at least now I don't even have to worry about it. I was lying to myself a little, but the resolution of our relationship, even that, was a much better outcome than the uncertainty that plagued us both.
I wanted to rest my head against the cold glass and listen to appropriate music, giving in to the mood while I was alone. But after looking round the dirty American bus, I was afraid to touch anything, I'd have to go to the doctor later. It even smelled exactly as you'd expect, a mixture of shit, vomit and unwashed bodies.
"Wouldn't be surprised if the back seats are actually occupied by bums."
A dubious glance at the seats only confirmed such theories. Many were stained with something, and there were extinguished cigarette butts lying on the next one altogether.
"Well, fuck it. I'd better go to the university and sneak into the lab, because the doc left me a typewriter for nothing?"
***
Just a couple of hours later, I was already sitting in Otto's lab, ignoring the persistent calls from his assistant. The nasty bitch had probably put some kind of sensor or something, but I wasn't doing anything wrong, just sitting there, poking around in the samples of manipulators, and there was a whole bunch of them, a veritable rpg's worth of choices for all sorts of situations. With various repair tools: carpentry tools, lathe tools, tools for welders, doctors, firefighters, and even a purely combat version hanging under seven locks. Apparently, Clara suspected that I would return to the lab, and prepared to leave the most dangerous one hanging on the racks.
-Hmm, naive agent, every one of these things is a potentially dangerous weapon. Even the latest fool could kill a couple of people with them before they put bullets in him, let alone me and Qi.
And I wasn't soothing myself with resentment that the "evil stepmother" had taken away my best toy, not at all. After all, my manipulators were the best, they were multi-functional and powerful. Yes, in a particular area they would be many times worse than the rest of their counterparts, but my babies were many times more useful.
Besides, no matter how we modify the implant on my back, it was originally created for them and only with them you can get the best indicators of synchronisation and efficiency.
Standing up from the table and setting aside the disassembled manipulator for children's performances... Yes, Dr Octavius is a very interesting man. I stepped closer to my metal limbs covered with a special cloth. Like a huge monster hiding and sleeping in its lair, they dangled from hooks nailed to the ceiling. They were the first tentacles I'd hooked up. Crooked, slanted, hastily. But they worked and they worked fine, even though I try to forget their purpose.
Next to them were others. Smaller, neater, more refined, and with a much more complex layout inside. Like a little brother, they nestled nearby in the shadow of their older, creepier sibling.
Without noticing, I moved closer to them, touching the shiny metal with my hand, running my fingers over the segments, imagining in my head how I could feel them as part of me again....
I had much fonder memories of them, because we had made them together with Dr Otto. We worked on them together, digging them up and practically building them from scratch. I knew everything about them and could draw a diagram for their assembly with my eyes closed. Every piece, every corner, all the wiring, circuitry and even the metal composition for each segment.
It was a shame to see them here, hanging idle and idle until better times. I wanted to feel like a multi-armed giant rising above the ground again. I wanted to control such a complex mechanism with my mind alone, to bend the metal to my will.
Thinking about it, for the first second I was seriously afraid that my roof was starting to leak again, but a quick meditation told me that my head was fine. Apparently it was a simple wish, without any double bottom.
-No, better not. Doc said you get really addicted after a while, and it's harder to give them up every time.... He hardly ever takes them off himself, he's so used to using his extra hands that they never let him down.
Biting my lip and clamping my eyelids shut, I looked away so I wouldn't be tempted. I'd be fighting the Brotherhood soon, and I wouldn't go into battle without them, but there was no point in wearing them now.
As I turned back to the tabletop, intending to continue my work, I jumped up like a child, smiling happily and clenching my fists to my chest. The feigned squeal of American schoolgirls meeting their favourite celebrity came out of my mouth.
-WEE-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee! Just for a couple of hours! Clara's going to be a pain in the arse anyway, so there's no point in being a goody-two-shoes.***
-There's a starman waiting in the sky--
Peter turned up the music in his earpiece, cranking his favourite song to the max. Shaking his head to the beat, he tried to sway to the beat, often sending his body into free flight. The "wind in his hair" felt bad through the suit, but even so, it felt great.
Plus, today his best friend had texted to say that he'd solved most of his backlog and they could get back together and play board games like they had in the quiet days of yore.
-Distant! It's been less than a year, but it feels like a lifetime," Peter muttered to himself, even pausing the music to think about it for a moment, and remembered one important thing as he pulled out his phone and typed a text message on the flight, "I hope Ned doesn't forget to bring Billy. I wonder if MJ will agree to play with us? Or have a purely sausage party? I'd better ask or I'll get offended.
The music played again in his earpiece, and a satisfied Spider-Man continued his flight over his favourite city.
Life was back on track, the city was slowly recovering from the constant gang wars, super assholes and other marginalised troublemakers.
He quickly got into the flow, getting used to the new life, when sometimes he had to put on a mask and take the side of ordinary people, unable to defend themselves from the mafia and their kind. The Spider-Man mask had become an important part of himself and no longer affected his personal life.
Remembering his charming girlfriend, Parker made a vulgar expression under the mask, recalling her heated body in colour.
-Uh, good thing I decided to wear a shell.
Today was a beautiful winter day. The streets were quiet and peaceful, with only a couple of thieves and drug addicts who were out in broad daylight. No mutants, supers, fascists on dinosaurs or any other bullshit.
So the friendly neighbour of all New Yorkers was now indulging in idleness, just enjoying flying, which he would never get bored of. His hands reflexively fired at the nearest houses, increasing his speed, after which Peter let go of the cobwebs and, humming at the top of his voice, plummeted downwards.
In this way he reached the Central Park of the city, a beautiful piece of nature in the middle of a stone jungle. Trees covered with white caps, statues and forts moulded by children, and of course, the decorations left over from Christmas. Despite the warm weather, a lot of snow had fallen during the night, so now the whole park was packed to the brim with people. Parents and children were walking and having fun, enjoying the new gorgeous day.
A large crowd had gathered in the middle of the park, near the pond, where an ice statue contest was currently taking place. Taking advantage of the moment, before the snow finally turned to mush, people were sculpting, bringing fantasy to life.
Interested in a few specimens, Spider jumped down onto a large memorial, hiding among the snowdrifts, looking at the crafts of the gaggling children.
-Oh, come on. Why do only children make my statues?
Indeed, to Parker's chagrin, most of Spider-Man's figures were sculpted by middle and junior high school children, with only a few older individuals creating his beautiful, heroic silhouette, pleasing the eye of his friendly neighbour.
-Oh, sure," Peter shifted his gaze to another part of the ice arena and saw his main competitor, or rather competitor, "How come! She comes out to the city many times less often than I do, why are there more statues of her?
Pete took a moment to look at the pose in which his friend Gwen was portrayed, and then, with a cartoonish twitch of his lips, turned away.
-That's off the table.
Spider-Woman was being portrayed in a very frivolous way, almost to the point of foul play, and some of them were apparently even kicked out for poses that were too revealing and provocative for the figures with Stacy's image.
-She doesn't have such huge breasts and arse, you morons. How would she keep her balance then? What the fuck?! Oh, Sean would be here, I'm sure he could bang out an exact replica.....
Chuckling into his fist like a little schoolgirl, Parker was about to leave when suddenly an alert came on his phone. He had special alerts on MJ, Sean, and Gwen, so it was probably just another piece of news that Peter had been blatantly drowning out for the last few days.
So much had happened that he hadn't even bothered to find out about the latest happenings in the city, and the more time passed, the less willing he was to get on the phone again, forever selling himself into slavery to technology.
-It sounds hypocritical, of course, but such a glorious hero must have some small disadvantages....
Peter's mutated senses noticed something wrong. His sixth sense, which he called spider sense, told him trouble was coming, but Parker's attentive eyes couldn't detect the threat. Ruffling his head around looking for danger, there was no way he could find anyone even minimally suspicious. The only people he could find were a couple of homeless guys who were mentally roasting a rat on a spit, far away from everyone, under the bridge.
-Maybe they're poisoned? Or is this going to be a food fight? It's the only option. God, what stupid thoughts come into my head.
But his spider sense never failed, so Peter continued to look for a threat. But Spider-Man forgot one little fact. Always being above his enemies, he forgot that the sky above him has no boundaries and there could always be a bigger bird.
The roar of turbines came out of nowhere. A deafening, gut-wrenching, demonic howl. Spider-Man felt his lungs and skull shudder. A frightening shiver ran through his body and his muscles tensed before he even realised it.
Like a cat startled by a sudden sound, Spider jumped aside, somersaulting in flight and turning around to face the threat hovering directly above him. A seemingly huge shadow obscured the winter sun, and projectiles were already flying towards Peter, flashing their lights.
Thoughts flashed by in an instant. Behind me there were people. A monument underfoot. On the arms of the webshooters.
The web-shooters' gunshots coincided with a villainous, contrived laugh. The booming voice was ear-splitting, drawing the attention of passers-by who froze in place and stared stupidly into the sky, shielding their eyes from the sun.
A fine mesh of cobwebs rushed forward, gathering the bombs together, knocking them into a pile and activating the detonation.
Explosion.
The shockwave scattered clumps of snow, tipping the melted slush onto the people. The screams and panic of people fleeing everywhere, followed by a raspy, cackling laugh.
Falling down on one of the sculptures, Peter holds his head and looks up to the sky, where the roar of turbines can be heard. A murky figure rushes through the air, catching up with defenceless citizens, pelting them with bombs. He cheers, shouts and incites them to run on, prolonging the agony.
There is devastation all around, but the friendly neighbour has no time to reflect, he must act. And he must act now.
A sharp mind easily calculates the trajectory of the mad flight, and the improved body does not fail, even after the concussion from the explosion and the painful fall.
Spiderwebs fly off his hands, hitting the glider with precision, lifting Spider into the air and carrying him after the bomber. Using the inertia of the curves, Peter pulls himself up, getting on the same level with the bastard, but instead of triumph, his spider-sense beats a drum, demanding that he leave immediately.
His head falls back obediently and his body twists at an angle that is abnormal for a normal person. Almost curled up in a ball, Parker felt the blade pass over him. So close that it felt like a stream of cleaving air passing over his stomach.
And then the fight began, a brawl on a constantly dangling glider, wiggling from side to side a small island of stability in the middle of the sky. The screams of wounded and frightened people underfoot, the cool air clearing my head, and the laughter... Mad, cruel, as if drawn from the very circles of hell.
Blows came from all sides. The blade flashed in front of his eyes, and the small arena made him show real miracles of gymnastics and agility.
A guy in a green suit of what looked like armour. Crooked segments, jagged seams and protruding steel threads, adding to the image of madness and chaos. Purple rags falling off his shoulders and fluttering in the wind. And the mask. A creepy, grotesque mask with rolling eyes and a toothy grin. He looked like a Grinch, a Grinch who had succumbed to the corruption of the Warp.
His enemy, the bastard who'd killed dozens of people and wounded even more. Fast, strong, agile, able to stand up to Spider's reflexes on equal footing, and no stranger to sneaky moves.
But no matter how strong and dangerous his opponent was, Peter slowly but surely crushed him, cornering him, gradually filling him with cobwebs to disarm the madman and stop the attack. But the man wasn't about to give up. Raising his blade to strike, the costumed freak pulled back, waving mockingly.
The board beneath them wiggled, flipping upside down, and then bombs spilled out of the green-suited guy's pockets. They fell downwards, right on people's heads, threatening to continue the horrors.
-NO!
Dashing after them, Peter's web shots drew most of them towards him, tossing them aside, but a few still fell down, causing more flames to erupt. The shockwaves were so strong that they scattered dead bodies around the area.
Landing again, but on the pavement covered in cinders and blood, Spider-Man felt another flash of pain in his abdomen. His hand reflexively jerked towards the hearth, bumping into the slimy, warm liquid. Blood was seeping out of his abdomen through the cut suit. A careful, practised surgical incision let him bleed.
The scarlet liquid dripped to the ground, mixing with the dirt and remnants of snow.
With cloudy eyes, Peter looked around, struggling to get to his feet, fiddling with one hand on his belt in search of a small first aid kit while the other tried to hold the blood in place.
"Cobwebs!"
It was unaccustomed to shooting himself, but Parker managed it, leaning against the broken column of the monument. Only now was he able to look around thickly and see all the horror that had happened today.
Bodies lay everywhere. Young and old, living and dead. Dozens, if not a hundred people who had fallen at the hands of a maniacal terrorist.
Peter's eyes slid over the faces of children and their parents. Carefully stepping forward, opening the first aid kit he'd finally found, he injected himself with painkillers, feeling the pain slowly recede and fatigue begin to take over.
Without looking at something he leaned against, Peter sat down on the ground with a painful exhalation. He wanted like hell to pull off his sweat mask, to breathe and just sit in silence, but he couldn't.
His hand slipped down with helplessness, and only now did Parker realise that all this time he'd been sitting next to his own ice statue. Cracked, broken in many places, without a piece of his lower jaw..... And from his forehead, along his neck and across his chest, a bloody palm print of his own was spreading.
***
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