Spider-Man E-Book

Stefan Petrucha

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Marvel novels
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 376

Beschreibung

Sixth title in Titan Books' Marvel fiction reissue program, featuring the Spider-Man story, Forever Young.Take a swing through Spider-Man's past!Hoping to snag some rent-paying photos of his arachnid-like alter ego in action, Peter Parker goes looking for trouble—and finds it in the form of a mysterious, mythical stone tablet coveted by both the Kingpin and the Maggia.Caught in the crosshairs of New York's most nefarious villains, Peter also runs afoul of his friends—and the police! His girlfriend, Gwen Stacy, isn't too happy with him, either. And the past comes back to haunt him years later when the Maggia's assumed-dead leader resurfaces, still in pursuit of the troublesome tablet. Plus: With Aunt May at death's door, has the ol' Parker luck disappeared for good?A novel based on the classic "Stone Tablet Saga," adapted and expanded for the present day.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One: Youth

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Part Two: Adulthood

Two Years Later…

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

Spider-Man: Forever Young

Print edition ISBN: 9781785659867

E-book edition ISBN: 9781785659874

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: October 2018

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2018 MARVEL

Spider-Man created by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko

Editor: Stuart Moore

Interior art: Humberto Ramos and Wayne Faucher with Jay Bowen and Salena Mahina

Cover art by Ed McGuinness and Teo Gonzales

VP Production & Special Projects: Jeff Youngquist

Assistant Editor: Caitlin O’Connell

Associate Editor: Sarah Brunstad

Manager, Licensed Publishing: Jeff Reingold

Director, Licensed Publishing: Sven Larsen

SVP Print, Sales & Marketing: David Gabriel

Editor in Chief: C.B. Cebulski

Chief Creative Officer: Joe Quesada

President, Marvel Entertainment: Dan Buckley

Executive Producer: Alan Fine

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Dedicated to Stan Lee, without whom…’nuff said.

Brief as the lightning in the collied night, That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and Earth; And ere a man hath power to say “Behold!” The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion.

— A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAMby William Shakespeare

 

PART ONE:

YOUTH

ONE

THE INSTANT Peter Parker’s fingers lifted from his palm, he snatched the end of the thick strand shooting from the nozzle strapped to his wrist. The strand went taut, sending him curving through the air, leaving New York City a blur.

While his uncle’s death had first motivated him, there was another big reason Peter fought crime as Spider-Man: He liked it. Swinging and diving, leaping and latching, moving from flagpole to building, scuttling along walls—it all felt good. Pretending to be an average Joe, on the other hand, made him feel like a runner forced to wear lead shoes. It wasn’t that he felt more himself as Spidey…but he did feel allowed to be more of himself.

Tonight, though, his money troubles weighed so heavily that he couldn’t even let go enough to enjoy the wild, roller-coaster whirl. Despite the sharp mind that created the web fluid and shooters—despite the proportional strength, speed, and agility he’d received from a radioactive spider bite in high school—Spider-Man kept thinking about all the things he couldn’t do.

Can’t believe I sold my scooter and still can’t afford a lousy half-price matinee! Or books. Or food. Not to mention rent.

At the peak of the pendulum arc, he released his grip, felt a brief sensation of flight, and then landed flat on the white-brick surface of a pre-war building.

If water wasn’t included with my apartment, I’d die of dehydration.

Sitting on a corner ledge, he tugged at an uneven fold in his mask that had been making the back of his neck itch.

Man up, Parker! Plenty of people don’t even have clean water.

He scanned the silent buildings, the streets and sidewalks glowing from the lampposts, but there was nothing. He could usually count on a villain’s pompous “I will destroy you” or a gasping mugger’s “Oh nuts it’s Spider-Man” to focus his chatty mind.

In the quiet, he had no one but himself to answer.

So now what? Hope for a crime so I can snap some pics for the Bugle? Well…yeah…kinda.

He listened carefully, in case the city din hid a cry for help. But even the traffic flowed free and easy. A recon of the area revealed nothing more than a few illegally parked cars. Otherwise, as far as he could tell, New York City was crime-free for the first time ever.

Eventually, the late shows ended, and the sidewalks filled with friends and couples.

Time to head home before Harry gets back from his date with MJ. Don’t want my roommate and his girlfriend seeing me climbing in through our apartment window.

Picking the shortest path, he swung past the hulking warehouses of the garment district. As he passed a particularly old one, a small tingle ran from his fingertips and toes, up along his limbs, meeting at the small of his back. The spider-sense that warned of impending danger was usually more of a five-bell alarm, sometimes making him leap even before he knew what he was dodging. This was more like goosebumps from a cool breeze, a shadow of unease.

I’m so overeager, I’m jumping at nothing. Parker, when will you ever grow up?

* * *

STANDING alone inside the decrepit building, 89-year-old Silvio Manfredi figured he’d left behind any need to grow up a long, long time ago. His street-name—Silvermane—said it all. He was the leader of the Maggia, the city’s largest criminal syndicate. He was the silverback, the alpha male, and—for decades now—a target for anyone eager to take his place.

In his line of work, any sign of weakness was death. Silvermane couldn’t just be on top, he had to make sure everyone saw him there—even when it came to fashion. The right business suit meant dominance. The right gun meant the guy carrying it knew how to use it. That was why—though he missed his old homburg hat, dark-gray striped suit, and two-tone shoes—he now wore the latest Brioni, and why, rather than his old tommy gun, he always carried a sweet little piece that could spray 420 rounds a second.

Experience had also taught him how to smell a threat. So when the pug-faced attorney Caesar Cicero had pleaded with him not to come to this warehouse without backup, his nostrils flared. Good advice? Yeah, sure, but lawyer-talk always had more than one meaning. Cicero, Silvermane’s ambitious second-in-command, was probing for weakness, searching for signs the old man had grown feeble enough for him to make a move.

But Silvermane hadn’t fallen for it. The city’s crannies hid the bodies of hundreds of chumps who’d trusted important duties, like this face-to-face, to some lackey. He should know. He’d put half of them there.

So, despite his aches, a hip that creaked when he walked, and a bum heart that threatened to take him out faster than a hitman’s bullet, Silvio Manfredi had showed up all on his own, refusing so much as a single bodyguard.

If it was a setup, he’d have smelled that, too.

But as the minutes ticked by and he remained alone, the cold making its way into his bones, he had to admit that, signs of weakness aside, death was death, too. Sooner or later there’d be a point where trusting his aging instincts might not be such a good idea. Three times, he’d forgotten the address. When he checked the flip-notebook he used for the special kind of info that only a fool would trust to a digital whatsis, he could barely make out his own scrawl.

Afraid the tremors had returned, he held out a hand. It was steady enough, but the fingers—once able to crack bones—looked so wrinkled, they reminded him of his grandmother.

Thinking of that sadistic witch sickened him. If one of his men were here, he’d have beaten him just to shake the memory. When his sainted mother had died shielding him from a Sicilian mobster with a vendetta, Silvio was sent to stay with his only living relative. That crone had never been young. She was already as calcified as a tombstone when they met, and she spat her first words to him:

“Se non fosse per te, mia figlia sarebbe ancora vivo!”

If not for you, my daughter would still be alive!

Too arthritic to make a fist, she’d beaten him with a wooden spoon.

But at night, when she thought he wasn’t listening, she’d sing herself a lullaby, the tune half-remembered from the harsh countryside of her birth, where only the quick and strong survived, and survival was cherished above all.

They tell us that we’re born to dieBut there’s no sense in that—say I.Those of us who know the truth,Will drink, drink, the nectar of youth.

When the wooden spoon cracked, she stole the few coppers his mother had left him and bought herself a new one made of steel. After a year of daily beatings, that one bent, too.

And his grandmother shook it at him, saying, “Anche sarai la mia morte!”

You’ll be the death of me, too!

When she finally did die, from a massive coronary, he hoped it was true.

Silvermane was trying to recall the second verse when a cough made him spin. A hooded figure stood behind him. He must have entered while Silvermane was lost in his stupid reverie—a mistake he could not allow himself again. The newcomer was already too close for comfort.

Hiding any surprise, Silvermane sneered. “You’re late.”

The figure gave him a not-quite-disrespectful shrug that rippled through his bright green-and-yellow cloak. The costume was probably meant to distract from a face only partly concealed by the oversized hood.

The voice was husky, deep, its age difficult to place. “Word on the street was that you’d bring company. I had to be sure you were alone.”

Manfredi feigned hurt feelings. “You thought I’d break my word?”

The contempt in the answer was clear. “From what I know of your history, part of the reason you’ve survived this long is because you only keep that word when it’s in your best interest. I’m glad you understand that this time, it is.”

Silvermane gave him a slight smile and stepped a little closer. “Your info on the Kingpin’s delivery schedule was golden. You’ve got nothing to fear from the Maggia, uh…what should I call you?”

“The Schemer.”

To keep from laughing, Silvermane sucked at his teeth, dislodging a piece of chicken that’d been there since lunch. “Okay. Call yourself Lady Gaga for all I care. So now that we’ve bonded, what can I do for you, Schemer?”

“More like what I can do for you.” The figure held out a thick file. “I know you prefer printouts.”

The small print was difficult to read, but what Manfredi saw in the headings made him feel young again. “This is Fisk’s entire distribution network! I could take him down for keeps if I play it right.” Silvermane narrowed his eyes. “What’s the Kingpin to you? He kill your sweetheart or something?”

“That’s my business.”

“Sure it is, sure. It’s just that…”

Experience had also taught him not to trust anyone unless he knew their weaknesses. So, feigning an old man’s dizziness, he stumbled forward, planning to yank away the Schemer’s hood.

“…I don’t like secrets!”

He’d either grown slower than he realized, or the Schemer was wildly fast. His fingers clawed air; the Schemer had already moved out of the way. Silvermane tensed, expecting a counterattack. But the Schemer, having quickly established a comfortable distance, waited for Silvermane to make the next move.

“That was foolish,” the Schemer said.

He’s right. I must’ve looked like an idiot. If this fool opens his yap about it at a bar, word will be all over the streets in an hour. If Cicero finds out…

Silvermane’s finger twitched on the trigger of the piece in his pocket. Half of him wanted to whack the Schemer here and now. But the other half wanted to keep his pipeline to the Kingpin. What was the smart move? The indecision brought a sick, terrified dread.

Out of nowhere, it felt as if an invisible elephant had sat on his ribcage. Silvermane moaned, grasped his chest, and fell to his knees.

It wasn’t until the agony made the Maggia leader pound at his own upper left arm that the Schemer came closer, convinced the heart attack was real. “Do you need help? A doctor?”

Enraged by the pity in his voice, Silvermane turned his tearing eyes to look up at the shadows within the hood. “Back off! What’s it to you if I live or die?”

“Nothing.” The contempt returned. “I only want to be sure the information is used. If not by you, then by your successor.”

“Successor? There won’t be any successor. I’ll use it. Now, go on, get out. GET OUT!”

* * *

IN THE sleek office building rising above Hell’s Kitchen, the Kingpin’s conference room held both trusted advisers and hired muscle. By and large, the muscle knew that only advisers were allowed to speak here, but the newest hire, the high-cheeked Tommy Tuttle, had yet to learn.

“So what’re we looking at here, boss?”

His train of thought interrupted, Wilson Fisk, a.k.a. the Kingpin, shifted to look at Tommy. As he did, his custom leather chair creaked like the hull of a New England schooner. Hoping his angry glare was enough to make his point, Fisk turned back to the image projected on the wall.

“The delicate carvings are beautiful, Wesley, even hypnotic. I understand your obsession with it. But how can this…artifact put my organization back on top?”

“It’s a treasure map, Mr. Fisk, a key to the greatest secret of all time. Throughout the ages, men have died for it, but beyond some wild speculation no one knows for certain what that secret is, since no one’s been able to decipher it.”

The answer was obviously incomplete. No doubt the bespectacled man expected his employer to figure out the rest. It was one of the things Wilson liked about Wesley.

“And you believe you can?”

“Not on my own, but I’ve researched a number of candidates, and weeded it down to one. He should be easy to…procure.”

Fisk’s fingers pressed brief patterns into his chin. “Where is it now?”

“The National Science Foundation has been sending it to different universities, hoping one will be able to crack the code. Right now, it’s on exhibit at Empire State University.”

Tommy spoke up again. “It’ll be easy to snatch it from there. What’ve they got, a bunch of bearded profs with padded elbows?”

Despite the second offense, Fisk kept his eyes on the tablet. The man’s sad efforts to nickname himself Tommy “The Talker” had not helped. But something about the boy reminded Fisk’s wife of their son, so he again tried to overlook the interruption.

Thankfully, Wesley stepped in. “Actually, sir, the college hired an outside security firm to guard it— Tech-Vault. On the surface, they look legit, but they’re owned by the Maggia. They do a fine job for their clients 90 percent of the time, despite giving their owners a heads-up when items of singular value are being transported in the city.”

Fisk’s attention was piqued. “Go on.”

“From what I can tell, the consigliere, Caesar Cicero, figures the tablet’s too famous to have any black-market value. I doubt he’s even mentioned it to Silvermane.”

“But the Maggia has no idea how to translate it, and we do.” Fisk’s eyes twinkled. “Wesley, you’ve outdone yourself. I’ve been looking for a chance to make them look foolish. Snatching this from under their noses will send the perfect message. And if this legend turns out to be true, the world’s greatest secret—whatever it is—will be an added bonus.”

“Thank you, sir. Now we only have to…”

Wesley trailed off. All eyes turned to the door.

At first, the Kingpin was annoyed by yet another distraction, but when he whirled and saw the source, he felt his fierce expression melt into that of a vulnerable child. The presence of the tall, slender woman, the perfect black of her hair broken by a shock of equally perfect white down the center, was a completely appropriate reason for his employees to fall silent.

“Vanessa, my love…”

Vanessa Fisk returned a cooler version of his lovestruck look. “Forgive the interruption…”

Remembering his seldom-exercised manners, the Kingpin rose, his abdomen moving the table back an inch. “No. There will never be a need for you to ask forgiveness from me.”

She was about to touch him, but did not. “I tried waiting, but I feel as if I’m going mad. I just heard from one of our son’s former classmates. He said Richard was despondent before he left on his ski trip, and I can’t stop worrying about it.”

The intimate subject didn’t surprise anyone. He and his wife often acted as if they spoke in private— not because the world didn’t matter, but because they had the power to put it on hold.

“Is every college dropout a licensed therapist now?” He gave her a pleading smile. “Your heart is so large, I’ve seen you weep at the sunset. Richard’s enjoying his leisure, that’s all—taking time to think about the things that task all young men before they begin their adult lives.”

The lack of an immediate response puzzled him. She looked as if she was wrestling with a dark cloud inside her, a fear…or a doubt.

“Wilson, is there anything you’re not telling me?”

His eyelids fluttered. “Of course not. Vanessa. I would never lie to you.”

Tommy the Talker mumbled, as if about to agree. Fisk gritted his teeth. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wesley grab the youth’s wrist and squeeze it, hard.

“How can I be sure of that,” she said, “when you lie so well to others?”

The words stung. “What? Because I love you. You and Richard are the center of my life, all that guides and drives me.”

Frowning as if not entirely accepting his answer, she left. The way her gown flowed around her twirling form made him ache. As a girl, she’d been subject to depression. Now, her somber mood made her seem like a gray ghost who, after a brief visit among the living, must now retreat beyond the veil. He could lay the world at her feet, but he couldn’t protect her from the depths of her own feelings.

* * *

THE ROOM was so silent, no one could help overhearing Tommy Tuttle’s whisper.

“Geez. She’s like the only thing in the world the Kingpin’s afraid of.”

Spinning like a vast globe on its axis, Fisk locked his eyes on the youth. “I’ll show you fear.”

He stalked forward, effortlessly flipping the conference table aside.

Tommy, having seen hippo attacks on video, knew how deadly the heavy beasts could be. The Kingpin was twice as fast. Still, when the first punch didn’t send him squarely into the bliss of unconsciousness, he hoped the beating wouldn’t be so bad. Tommy knew he deserved a lesson. He’d never been able to keep his mouth shut.

It was only after the fifth blow began to flatten his high cheekbone that he realized Fisk was keeping him awake on purpose, so he would feel every second of the pain.

“No one mentions my wife. No one.”

TWO

ALREADY late for the day’s most important appointment, Peter rushed across the plaza at the center of Empire State University. He was concentrating on trying not to run too fast when a pat on the back startled him.

“You’re Peter Parker, right?”

The face that greeted him was friendly, but unfamiliar. “Sure, if you’re not a bill collector…?”

The stranger put out his hand. “Randy Robertson. Robbie Robertson’s my dad.”

Smiling, Peter took the hand, trying to remember whether the Daily Bugle City Editor had mentioned his son was attending ESU. “Right!”

“Dad said one of his freelance photographers was a VIP here.”

“VIP? I can’t even get arrested. It’s great to meet you, but…” The I’m-late part stuck in his throat. Randy looked as new to the campus as his sneakers. Another minute wouldn’t matter. “How’s it going? Need help finding anything? Coffee house? Bathroom? Can’t have one without the other, right?”

Randy shrugged. “I’m good, just wanted to put a face to the name. You’re here for the protest too, right?” He tilted his head toward a large group preparing picket signs no more than a few yards away.

Wow. How’d I miss that? There must be a hundred people.

Activist Josh Kittling, the real VIP, stood at the center of the crowd. Zeroing in on Peter, his sonorous voice boomed from his thin body. “Parker, pick up a Sharpie. If you’re not with us, you’re against us!”

Peter felt like half the crowd stopped to stare at him.

“Uh…what exactly is it I’m for or against?”

“Way to stay on top of things.” Kittling pointed across the plaza toward the Exhibition Hall. “That old rock on display isn’t drawing the donations they hoped, so admin’s planning to spend ten million to renovate the building. We want that money for needs-based scholarships.”

Kittling was usually right, but not always. Afraid of whatever devil might be in the details, Peter hesitated to offer his full support. “I dunno, maybe fixing up the old place will bring in the money to help fund financial aid. Two birds with one stone, right?”

“We’ve been through the numbers, friend. It’s time for action.”

Sheesh. I like the guy, but last time we talked, I almost wound up on a pontoon boat chasing down leaky oil tankers. I’m all for the environment, but somebody has to stick around to fight the super villains.

“I want to hear more, Josh, but I’m running late.”

“Right. I’m sure it’s much more important than keeping corporate culture from destroying our education.”

This time the crowd hissed at Peter, until Randy spoke up. “Ease up. You don’t know what he’s got going on.”

Kittling’s condescending headshake was infuriating. “All I need to know is that he’s not standing with his community.”

After years of being bullied as a bookworm, Peter was dying to tell everyone exactly what he stood up for as Spider-Man, but he couldn’t. Trying to ignore the boos, he walked away, gritting his teeth.

As tight as his jaw was when he exited the plaza, it went slack when he saw Gwen Stacy. She was standing with her shoulders against the Coffee Bean storefront, her books pressed to her chest. The way her face brightened when she saw him made him suddenly aware of how nice the weather was.

“Hey, boo!” she called.

He trotted over. She put her cheek out for a kiss, which he happily provided.

“See the raging protest?”

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Sure you don’t want to hang around and attend? By the time we’re back from Queens, Josh and co. will probably take Manhattan, the Bronx, and Staten Island, too.”

“And miss hearing you quote old song lyrics? Never. Besides, I already signed the petition and wrote to the dean.”

“There’s a petition? We have a dean?”

She slapped his shoulder and tugged him toward the subway. “Classrooms, too. I’ll tell you all about them on the way to your aunt’s.”

The rush of the rattling train was too loud for talk, so Peter contented himself with looking at Gwen. Even without the platinum-blonde hair, doe eyes, and winsome figure, he’d be hopelessly in love. Being a police captain’s daughter had given her a strong moral sense and an even stronger backbone when it came to standing up for what she believed. The only question about Gwen that ever worried him was: What on Earth was she doing with someone like him?

Of course, theirs wasn’t the usual boy/girl dance. More like boy/girl/secret identity, with super villains cutting in on every step. The Meteor, the Rhino, the Molten Man, the Vulture, the Green Goblin, the Shocker, the Lizard, the this, the that. Sooner or later, he’d be facing some crook calling themselves the The.

Back when he’d slouched into his first ESU class distracted by Spidey business, everyone thought he was a snob. But the girl now cuddling with him had ignored Flash Thompson’s advances and approached Pete first. Why? Maybe she’d also inherited a nose for mysteries. Still, whenever he “mysteriously” ran from an emergency, she dismissed him as a coward along with everyone else.

Halfway through the ride, the doors swished open. During the momentary lull, Gwen leaned in and whispered something.

“What’d you say?”

“I said, I’m glad to be with you.”

He pulled her closer. “Yeah, I heard you the first time. I just wanted you to say it again.”

In time, when MJ started hinting Gwen had more-than-friendly feelings for him, he couldn’t wrap his head around it. Even when Gwen herself said she had a crush on “a bashful brown-haired biker,” he thought she was kidding.

A nudge to the shoulder brought him back to the present. “Here we are, beautiful dreamer.”

“Huh?”

“Thought you liked old songs.”

“Yes. Right.”

They exited onto the elevated platform at Forest Hills as lunch hour peaked. Peter tried to make a point of chivalrously clearing a path.

Not that he’d ever been a perfect suitor. On their first date, he’d forgotten she was a fellow science major. That time, though, when he returned after vanishing to fight Doctor Octopus, she didn’t call him a coward—she wrapped him in a huge hug, genuinely afraid he’d been hurt.

That made him think.

Or, rather, it made him stop thinking for a change.

As they walked arm-in-arm down the tree-lined streets of his old neighborhood, he kept wondering why he didn’t tell her all that. Chatter though they might about every other topic imaginable, he always held back, never letting her in all the way. The same distance he was forced to maintain with everyone now dogged his time with Gwen.

She sensed it, of course. His denial of the obvious had become a personal cliché.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“You’d be short-changed, Gwen.”

He could have said he was worried about Aunt May. It was true enough. When Peter left home to share a Village apartment with Harry, Anna Watson, Mary Jane’s aunt, moved in with the woman who raised him. A few days ago, Mrs. Watson had reported that Aunt May was feeling poorly, and he hadn’t had a chance to visit until today.

But that wasn’t all he was thinking, and giving Gwen less than the whole truth would feel like an insult.

“Why do I always go for the silent type?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

When they walked up the path to the modest two-story home, his supposedly under-the-weather aunt opened the door before he could knock.

“Peter!”

Despite the well-earned wrinkles, her face was bright, her smile strong.

He pecked her cheek. “Someone’s got her dancing shoes on, huh? Mrs. Watson said you weren’t feeling so well.”

“Nonsense, don’t listen to her! I feel strong as a lion, especially when my nephew visits!” She looked from him to Gwen. “My, you two have been seeing quite a bit of each other!”

Gwen hugged her as they went in. “I hope you don’t disapprove, Mrs. Parker.”

Aunt May put her hand to her lips. “Disapprove? Sounds as if you’re more serious than I thought. All I can say is you’ve made a silly, sentimental old lady very happy.”

An oddly quiet Anna Watson joined them. Peter set his secrets aside for the next few hours. Sipping tea and eating cookies, he let himself enjoy the rare feeling of being part of something, of a family. That Gwen was part of it, too, made it all perfect.

Once they were outside, Gwen hooked her arm in his. “That woman’s eyes are as bright as a newborn’s. With someone like that raising you, it’s no wonder you’re ever so slightly special.”

* * *

AS SOON as Peter’s only surviving relative closed the door, Anna Watson raced over to keep her from collapsing, then helped her to the couch to lie down.

When she finished settling her friend comfortably, Anna scowled. “May Parker! Why didn’t you tell him about your test results? You can’t protect him forever— he’s an adult. He has a right to know.”

May weakly waved her off. “I know, Anna, I know.” She turned her face toward the afternoon sun shining through the window, revealing yellow traces in the whites of her eyes. “But Peter’s always been so troubled, ever since he was a child, and he looked so happy with his girlfriend. I couldn’t bring myself to spoil it.”

Anna Watson tsked, but said no more.

THREE

BURYING the churning mix of rage, fear, and guilt that haunted his feelings for Vanessa, the Kingpin forced himself to focus on the news.

“…their numbers now over a thousand, we’re hearing unconfirmed reports that the students may try to take over the Exhibition Hall. The occupation of academic buildings has been part of student protests since the ’60s, but…”

Despite their naïve ideals, the protestors were admirably organized. Using real-time connections to support groups such as the ACLU, they’d achieved a wealth of media coverage in just a few short hours. Campus security, surprised by the size of the event, was barely equipped to control the current crowd— and it was growing by the minute.

It was as if the very sky had parted just for him. Events had moved so swiftly, he doubted that the Maggia-front security company, Tech-Vault, had had the time, let alone the interest, to increase its presence at the hall. After all, these children, despite their numbers, posed no real threat to the status quo, let alone the ancient tablet.

But Wilson Fisk did.

Using a satin handkerchief to wipe Tommy Tuttle’s blood from his knuckles, he turned to Wesley. “It’s almost too perfect. The time has come to strike. Gather the best we have and prepare my car.”

Wesley stared at him. “Sir, you’re not planning to go yourself?”

“Of course I am. You know how Manfredi thinks. He should have retired decades ago, but he still acts personally. If the point is to impress the Maggia, I have to be there myself.”

* * *

STRESSED as he’d been lately, Peter managed to maintain the cozy feeling of home even after Gwen left the subway a few stops early to study for an evening class. He didn’t even mind thinking about money, or the protestors.

May as well drop by the Exhibition Hall. I can grab some shots of that tablet for the Bugle, maybe even try for a better conversation with Kittling.

As he exited the subway in Greenwich Village, the feel of Gwen nestled in his arm lingered, like a sweater that had been warmed by a fireplace on one side. It was only when he turned the corner and saw the crowd that he felt the chill in the air.

ESU’s grassy, open plaza was standing room only. Forced to the fringes, campus police were struggling to keep people from spilling into the street and blocking traffic. Satellite vans from the major new outlets lined a cordoned-off media area. NYPD crowd-control units were just beginning to arrive, but he didn’t see how they could hope to contain things.

He loved the Big Apple, but just looking at the tightly packed throng made him claustrophobic. The crowd-control units nearby looked like they were sporting tear gas cannisters. And the students weren’t organized, the way he’d seen in other protests like Occupy Wall Street. This felt more like an overcrowded concert where a stampede might get someone killed.

The mass, insofar as it had shape, centered on a small group passing out signs and pamphlets near the hall’s entrance. Peter weaved closer, using his press pass to get onto the plaza and his student ID to get beyond the cordoned press area.

Turns out having multiple identities isn’t always a bad thing.

The first face he made out was, of course, Josh Kittling. He was literally standing on a soap box, megaphone in hand. The second was Randy Robertson, who looked somewhere between impressed and overwhelmed.

His face brightened as he saw Peter. “You’re joining us for the takeover?”

Takeover?

Before Peter could answer, Kittling wheeled the megaphone his way. “Finally decided to man up, Parker?”

“Josh, I totally agree about the financial aid. I couldn’t afford it here in a million years if it wasn’t for my scholarship…”

“Exactly, bright boy. That scholarship makes you bought and sold, while the rest of us who scrimped and saved to get here are being forced to drop out left and right.”

“Yeah, you’re right, but I barely made it this far without getting trampled. If you start a takeover with this big a crowd, and someone starts shoving, there could be a panic. People could get hurt. Have you at least given the administration time to respond?”

“Time? You kidding me? We’ve got the eyes of the world on us right now. If we don’t ride this wave, the press will be gone by morning, along with the biggest reason admin has to meet our demands.”

“Look around, Josh. Is it worth the risk?”

“My answer’s yes! What’s yours going to be? You going to be part of the solution, or hide in the back like a coward?”

Peter knew Kittling was talking more to the protestors than to him. But the jibe still hit its own very special nerve. Especially when everyone booed at him, except for Randy, who looked confused.

Peter clenched his fists. Trying to get away before his rising temper made things worse, he shoved through the densely packed protestors. He all but popped into an empty space beyond a line of sawhorses that blocked the steps to the hall.

Two private security guards wearing riot gear stood at the door. Seeing Peter, one held up his hand.

“Back off. No students past this point.” The massive crowd was clearly making the man nervous.

But Peter was still steaming. “Really? I thought the place was built for students.”

One stomped toward him. Peter flashed his press pass.

“Look, I’m just here to take some pictures of the tablet.”

With a simian grunt, the guard stepped aside.

Seeing this, some of the students came forward, pushing aside the sawhorses. Panicking, the guards raised their shields and batons. Peter tensed, but Kittling ordered the students back. “Not yet, not yet! We go in a small group, and together!”

Huh. Maybe he was listening to me about the crowd. Either way, the takeover will begin in earnest soon. What should I—what can I do?

Unsure of the answer, Peter went inside, marched down a long hall, and entered the main gallery.

At least I can get a look at what the fuss is all about.

Surrounded by four more security guards, the only thing on display in the huge marble-tiled room was the tablet. It was surprisingly small, maybe a foot across. Even the signs surrounding the case dwarfed it. He skimmed a few sentences. The legends about its origin were vaguely interesting, but after hitting the word “unknown” for the umpteenth time, he stopped.

Sure takes a lot of words to describe something they don’t know much about.

As for the tablet itself, the ancient writing had a nice swirly thing going for it, if you liked hieroglyphs. The fact it had survived thousands of years provided a passing sense of wonder. But ultimately Peter found the display more interesting—probably because he knew the molecular structure of its super-strong transparent polymer.

He aimed his camera, thinking of the notes Robbie Robertson had given him about composition (which were much more helpful than Editor in Chief Jameson’s go-to critique of This stinks!). He took some shots he hoped would make the little rock look more impressive to an untrained eye—such as his own.

* * *

OUTSIDE, Kittling and his small group of coordinators struggled to keep the protestors in check. “Feel that power?” he said to Randy. “It’s like we’re trying to hold back the tide! We’ll go in with just the coordinators, but sooner or later we’re just going to have to let go and let it all flow.”

The mix of fear, awe, and glee on Josh’s face made Randy even more uneasy. “But what about what Peter said? What if people get hurt?”

Kittling eyed the wildly packed plaza, then the relatively quiet entrance. He turned to Randy and lowered his voice. “Listen, if NYPD and campus security start in with the pepper spray and rubber bullets, yeah, people will freak, and yeah, there’ll be damage. But they can’t get to us because of the crowds. Right now, the only thing between us and the hall are a few rent-a-cops in over their heads. Want to make it quick and easy? I’ve got an idea. Once we go in for the takeover, I’ll split off and grab that old hunk of rock. With that as a hostage, they’ll have to back off and pay attention.”

“That’s not what we’re about,” Randy said “Besides, that thing’s priceless. What if you damage it?”

“I say it’s time to find out what we’re about.” He waved the crowd toward the steps and shouted, “Coordinators, follow me! We’re going in!”

And the sea of people crashed forward.

* * *

A HORRIFIC pounding sent Peter running back toward the entrance. He was halfway there when the doors opened and about a dozen students swarmed in, led by Kittling. The two guards stumbled backwards into the hall, dropping their nightsticks and drawing their sidearms. Seeing the weapons brought the students to a halt.

Moving a bit faster than a human should, Peter raced toward the guards.

“Hey! Put the guns down! Those are students— they’re just demonstrating!”

The guards turned his way. One shouted back, “I don’t give a damn about their protest! We were paid to guard that tablet, and that’s what we’re going to do!”

They leveled their handguns at the protestors.

“Back out, all of you! Now!”

Though clearly frightened, Kittling held his ground. “You shoot, and the people out there will tear this place apart!”

The steadier of the two guards aimed at the floor and nudged his partner to do the same. “No one wants to shoot anything. Just back off!”

“We’re not going anywhere. You, stand aside!’

Peter relaxed slightly. Stalemate, for now. I could switch to Spidey, but what good would that do? Wait a minute…

He held up his camera and snapped a picture. Instantly, one of the guards covered his face. “Put that down!”

In response, the defiant students held up their phones. They took photos, began recording videos.

Not only am I making those guards think twice, I’m getting some great exclusive shots!

Kittling’s admiring glance was cut short when a great roar rattled the building. The chanting outside turned into screaming. A glimpse through the window of rising smoke told Peter that something at the far edge of the plaza had exploded.

The crowd was panicking. The police were already rushing toward the blast site, taking them even farther away from the Exhibition Hall. Peter couldn’t see whether anyone was hurt, but at least the crowd was thinnest there. Why this spot? Why this timing?

It’s almost as if it was intended as a distraction—

A second blast, smaller and closer, made him turn him back inside. At the end of a long hallway, an emergency door tore loose from its hinges. Six armed men marched in. Though dressed like the protestors, they moved with military precision. Behind them, an oversize limo was visible in the service alley.

With the police focused on the plaza blast, they hit the side of the hall facing the street. Smart.

A larger shadow appeared at the fallen door. At first Peter thought it was three more men—but it was only one. Wearing a tailored jacket and vest more suitable to a gala than a heist, a massive figure stormed ahead of the gunmen. His bald head shone beneath the fluorescents like an oversized bowling ball. Each footfall boomed like a small explosion all its own, his diamond-topped walking cane making little ticks against the marble.

“To the main gallery, quickly. And keep those gas masks at the ready!”

The Kingpin! I’ve seen photos, but he looks even bigger in person. What’s he doing here?

Before Peter could guess, Wilson Fisk’s moose-sized shoulder hit him. To preserve his identity, Peter let himself be tossed aside, then watched as the Kingpin bulldozed a path through the students.

Before anyone could tell whether the two security guards were going to attack, the Kingpin’s men fired, taking them down. Ignoring the screams of the students, the villains approached the entrance and braced the doors closed with telescoping bars that fit neatly through the handles.

Now locked inside, the dozen protestors looked to their leader, Kittling. He, in turn, stared numbly at the bodies of the security guards. “You can’t just…”

Seeing the attention the others paid to Kittling’s choked-off words, Fisk gripped the youth’s shirt and wrenched him into the air.

In a flash, two of the protestors—linebackers from the look of them—rushed up. An angry Randy Robertson was right behind them.

“Randy, stop!” Peter tried to grab him, but before they even got close, the gunmen formed a tight line between the Kingpin, Kittling, and the students. A single shot fired into the air stopped Randy and the others in their tracks.

Wilson Fisk’s thick lips curled. He grabbed Kittling’s phone, crushed it, and then twisted his albino-bull of a skull toward the trembling group. Letting go of Kittling, he turned toward the cowering students.

“Stay out of our way, and you’ll have an exciting story to tell your friends. But if any of you take the additional step of identifying me to the police, I’ll find you. You don’t have to lie, just tell them you were all frightened and confused. That always makes it hard to remember details.”

All eyes on the Kingpin, Peter stepped back. Once he was behind the students and blocked from the mobsters’ view, he ducked into an adjacent hall.

I may not be much with politics, but these jokers are definitely my speed.

He looked for a quick place to change but found only a locked supply closet. With a twinge of guilt, he broke the knob and wedged his way into the cramped space. Knocking over buckets, brooms, and pungent cleansers, he scrambled to remove his civvies, revealing the blue-and-red webbed suit beneath.

Mask in place, he bounced out, scuttling along the tiled walls. By the time he reached the lobby’s high ceiling, only the students remained.

The Kingpin must be after the tablet!

Kittling, dazed and sprawled on the floor, pointed up at him. “First the Kingpin, now Spider-Man! It’s like some crazy super-conspiracy is trying to bump our protest out of the news!”

Spider-Man fired a web and swung across the open space. “Stay out of this, all of you! It’s not about the protest! If you want to be useful, go warn the police that gunmen are trying to steal the tablet!”

He landed on the ceiling of the wide hall leading to the main gallery. At his back, he heard Randy apologize to Kittling.

“I feel like a coward! I should have tried to stop them.”

Kittling’s response impressed the wall-crawler. “Forget it, man—the only way to stop a bullet is with your body. Let’s pry those bars off and get these front doors open!”

Relieved to hear it, Spider-Man paused outside the main gallery. Before starting any fights, he wanted to give the students time to flee the building—and set up his automatic camera. Within, the Kingpin and his men also seemed to be taking their time. Half-hidden behind the tall signage, they were donning gas masks as the four remaining security guards braced for an attack.

That can’t be good.

Still unseen, Spider-Man crawled along the ceiling, but before he could reach the crooks, the Kingpin hurled a handful of pellets toward the tablet. They shattered as they hit the case, releasing a curling green mist. The guards started gasping and clawing at their throats.

“Make sure those masks are on tight!” the Kingpin called out. “That gas is powerful enough to knock me out!”

As the guards fell, the Kingpin strode up to the display case and raised his walking cane. At first Peter was confident the polymer would withstand the blow, but it didn’t. The diamond at the tip of the Kingpin’s cane cracked its surface.

Is he hiding a jackhammer in that tux? Another shot like that and he’ll shatter the case. The alarms are already screaming, but with the mess outside, who’s left to respond? He planned this perfectly, except for one thing…

Spider-Man dropped from the ceiling. “’Scuse me, but you’ve got something on your chin…”