Post by Drake on Dec 6, 2015 22:18:26 GMT -5
#13: The Other Part 3
Dreams
By Drake
…
“Hello! It’s me,” Spider-Man chuckled as he stood in a dark room that was only lit around where he was standing, “Spider-Man…and, so we don’t get sued, Adele!”
The pop singer in question stepped into view. “I can’t promise anything.”
“Ha!” Spider-Man wrapped his arm around Adele, who glanced at him in feigned disgust and removed it from her shoulders. “Isn’t she great? A total jokester!” Spider-Man glanced away. “She is joking, right? My aunt’ll kill me if I get sued.”
Getting back to the topic at hand, Adele said, “Spider-Man and I are here to announce something I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for…”
“We’re having a baby!” Spidey quipped.
“Sh! You’re supposed to keep that a secret,” Adele audibly whispered.
“Oops. Sorry. I got a habit of spilling secrets…especially my own,” Spider-Man admitted.
Adele smiled and faced front again, “Anyway, we’re happy to announce that, in partnership with OsCorp, I will be hosting and performing on Saturday Night Live on December 19th. That’s in two weeks!”
“And I’ll be the musical guest!” Spider-Man added.
“No,” Adele sighed, “We’ve gone over this before. You just didn’t cut it.”
“And I’ve told you a thousand times—I play a heck of a banjo!” Spider-Man leaned in, using his hand to keep the musician from hearing what he was saying, “Better than she can sing, anyway.”
“Spidey, what are you—“
…
“You have to be kidding me,” Felicia leaned back in her seat, staring incredulously at the computer screen, and more specifically the commercial, before her. She glanced back at her boss and the publisher and editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle, J. Jonah Jameson, who looked at her with cool eyes. “This crap is why you’re firing me? It could be a fake. An actor.”
Jameson stood up straight and crossed his arms, “Doesn’t matter. People wouldn’t know any better. Heck, I don’t know any better! If OsCorp says it’s true, though—“
“It’s true. Right,” Felicia sighed, shaking her head, “This new partnership? It’s bullshit.”
“For you, maybe. It was lovely working with you, Ms. Party—“
“—Hardy—“
“—But your contract is terminated, effective immediately. OsCorp’s got us a new Spider-Man photographer.“ Jameson explained.
“Whatever. Your loss,” Felicia retorted, standing up and grabbing her leather jacket and purse from her desk. Despite her nonchalant attitude, Felicia’s pride was hurt. However, she was far too consumed by another thought to grow frustrated: confusion.
What the hell is going on with Spider-Man? Selling his soul to OsCorp? Commercials? Thought he was a rebel. Either way, it makes it easier to kill him. And with him broadcasting his powers, height, weight, videos of his fights, and all the crap I could ever need to squash him, this job’s pointless anyway. Recon’s unnecessary when your enemy flaunts his BS more loudly than when he wore bright red and blue.
Meanwhile, Jameson had begun to look around the office, frustration rising, “Now, speaking of that photographer, where is…”
“Mr. Jameson, sir, I’m, uh, sorry I’m late.” Peter Parker burst in through the elevator doors, his frantic, timid personality the complete opposite of his more rebellious attire. Felicia had to admit leather looked good on him. Panic, however, did not.
“Parker—“ Jameson began, fury cracking through the surface. However, he stopped himself, took a deep breath, and continued, “It’s fine. We need to have a talk.”
“Um…okay.” Well…crap.
“Cut the shit, Jameson,” Felicia clucked, stopping on her way out beside Peter to nudge him teasingly and say, “If you can fire me in front of everyone,” she motioned to the very-aware crowd of reporters, photographers, editors, and secretaries around the bullpen, who didn’t even try to pretend like they weren’t focusing on the scene at hand, “Then you can fire the kid now.”
“Gee, thanks, Felicia,” Peter grumbled back under his breath. Now you show your true colors.
“That’s just the thing…” It was Robbie Robertson, Jonah’s ever-weary voice of reason and right hand, who spoke. “Jonah isn’t going to fire Peter.”
“Parker,” Jameson rested his hands on his waist, as nearly every person in the bullpen’s eyes widened with expectation, “You’re hired.”
Silence. Peter looked around the room, unsure if this was a prank. He’d faced something similar in high school, when Liz Allan had asked him out in front of the whole cafeteria—to which he’d naturally said ‘yes’—only to reveal it was a not-so-elaborate joke.
“…I already work here. As a programmer,” Peter stated the obvious.
“No way…” Felicia shook her head in disbelief, “Your new photographer is the old one?”
“The new what-now?” Peter muttered.
Jameson ignored them both, and approached Peter. “Programming, shmogramming. Time to dust off the ol’ camera, Parker. You’re the Spider-Man photographer again.” Jameson put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, causing the teen to shrink back uncomfortably. The publisher motioned out to the building’s view of Brooklyn and smiled. “You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, kid. Just like…” Jameson swallowed. “Spider-Man.”
Peter glanced at Robbie, who nodded in assurance. Felicia smirked. This was almost comical.
“…thanks?” Peter managed. Something is very, very wrong.
“I feel like this is a bad decision, but, uh, I'll ask anyway: why am I being rehired?” Peter asked.
“Dad gummit, Parker! Just take the—“ Jameson sighed, and steadied himself. “The stalwart Mr. Norman Osborn called me and personally requested you be reinstated.” That caught everyone’s attention, especially Peter’s. The damn man hadn’t listened to a word he’d said about keeping his identity secret, as distant seeming from Spider-Man as possible. “If that man sees the ‘stuff’ in Spider-Man and you, well, who am I to doubt him? There isn’t a man alive like Norman Osborn.”
“Right…” Peter replied. Now, it all made sense. Sort of.
Peter looked around the room. He even offered Felicia a sympathetic glance. “So…”
CRASH!
The gorgeous view shattered to pieces, enveloped by a black presence—the villainess, Black Tarantula! She landed gracefully on all fours, and glared up at Peter.
With a guttural, animalistic hiss, she cried out, “This time, Spider-Man, you die!”
Peter froze. Attack or run? Charge or hide? Fight or flight? He did neither. He simply stood there, caught in a deep feeling he couldn’t shake—a fear so primal it seemed unnatural to the levelheaded boy.
“Where? Where’s Spider-Man?” J. Jonah Jameson feverishly looked around for any clue. He’d noticed the focus of the villain’s gaze, but he couldn’t believe it. Parker? Puny Peter Parker?
Black Tarantula leaped for Peter. The brunet found himself spider-sense-less, tackled to the ground. However, he’d still seen the attack coming. He could have dodged it, but he didn’t. Why? Was his identity really that important? His Aunt May…
“Agh!! …wrong number?” Peter tried, as Black Tarantula crouched over him, seemingly waiting for a sign he was, in fact, Spider-Man, and she hadn’t imagined seeing him change and enter the building. That did it. She slugged him, and finally someone in the bullpen screamed. Then, another, and a chorus broke out. It was chaos, as Peter found himself being brutally beaten by the black-clad villain.
Blood squirted out of Peter’s nose, but somehow it refrained from breaking. Thank God for mild invulnerability. Still, it didn’t amass to much. A puddle of blood quickly grew around him. He began to see stars. No, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t show everyone, even if he died hiding his secret. May had to be safe.
“Why…why??” Black Tarantula roared in confusion. “Why won’t you fight me, Spider?”
“Noth…Sthpoder-man,” Peter managed through a mouthful of blood. He spat it out, also expelling a piece of a tooth in the process. He looked back up at the villain, who glared at him questioningly. Peter grinned. “Behind you, bee-otch.”
Black Tarantula’s lenses widened in surprise, right before a chair crashed against her head. J. Jonah Jameson, foldable chair in hand, glared coolly at the villain as she tumbled to the side.
“Stay the hell away from my employee, you maniacal menace,” Jameson demanded.
“Holy shitake mushrooms,” Peter muttered, eyes wide. Before the villain could get up, he did a quick 360 of the room. Robbie was leading terrified reporters down the stairway. Betty had helped an elder woman, one Peter didn’t recognize, through the crowd. And Felicia…she just stood at the elevator’s entrance, her hand in her purse, almost as if…
Felicia Hardy grimaced. She tightened the grip on the 9mm in her purse. Now wouldn’t be the best time to reveal her talents, but if LaMuerto continued to act accordingly, attacking innocents, she’d have to learn firsthand that nobody disobeyed the Black Cat. And yet, what if she was telling the truth? What if Peter Parker and Spider-Man were one and the same?
The boy in question glanced back at the villain, who had begun to rise. Jameson tried to smack her away with the chair, only to be knocked away himself, launched into a desk and unconsciousness. Peter gulped. He couldn’t let this continue. He had to stop her. But his identity…
Suddenly, oddly, Peter felt his leather jacket—the symbiote—slink off his body, through the shadows, and out of the hole Tarantula had created. He frowned. What the hell was going on? Did the suit have a ‘survival mode?’
Black Tarantula retook his attention—and thankfully had distracted Felicia from the unusual sight of his liquid jacket—by standing over him and allowing her lenses to glow as heat radiated off them.
“Spider or not…goodbye,” Black Tarantula growled.
“Not so fast!!”
No. No way. That voice…
Peter looked towards the windowpanes. All other gazes followed his towards the source of the voice. In sunlit glory stood Spider-Man. But Peter was on the ground, beaten and bloody. That meant the suit had taken on a mind of its own—a voice of its own. A voice eerily similar to his own when he put on the costume: the cocky, playful swagger of Spider-Man.
“Looking for me?” suit-Spidey teased.
“What the f...?” Peter mouthed.
“Spider-Man…” Felicia whispered, loosening her grip on her pistol.
Black Tarantula looked between the two Spiders, utterly confused. “I…I thought…how?”
’What shall I do?’
The voice in Peter’s head shocked him, as the suit-Spidey and Black Tarantula faced off. He frowned and looked around, near-immediately discovering a piece of the symbiote on his hand.
You’re sentient?
’Less talking, more…er, talking…about orders.’
Peter’s eyes widened in shock, but he reacted instinctively, ordering, Fake an attack, but make sure she dodges. Then, drag the fight outside, away from everyone. Hide, and return to me. Don’t let her follow you.
’Done.’
Suit-Spidey charged at Black Tarantula right as the villain made up her mind to attack the suit. The two rolled away from one another to avoid the other’s attack.
Suit-Spidey glanced around the room. “Better safe than sorry. Let’s take this elsewhere, ‘fore we wake up sleepy JJJ over there.”
After motioning to the unconscious publisher, he turned and swung away with black faux-webbing. Black Tarantula cried out in anger and followed after him. The two disappeared into Brooklyn, leaving Peter, Felicia, and Jameson alone and at peace.
Peter looked at Felicia, his vision blurring, “Um…I’d call nine-one-one, but…”
Everything faded to black.
…
When Peter came to, he found Gwen and May sitting beside him, waiting anxiously. May had Peter’s hand in a death grip, her knuckles white with strain. She’d closed her eyes to pray. Gwen, on the other hand, just stared right at Peter, so she was the first to notice.
“Peter!” Gwen said, jumping up onto her feet.
May looked up, teary-eyed.
Peter forced a weak grin. “We’ve really gotta stop meeting like this.”
“You silly, heroic boy,“ May began to hug Peter, but thought better of it and backed off. She smiled down at her nephew. “Peter—“
Knock knock.
All three pairs of eyes flicked to the teen standing in the doorway: Harry Osborn. He smiled exhaustedly and said, “Looks like sleepyhead’s up.”
“Hey, Harry,” Peter greeted. He sat up, pausing for a moment to grimace in pain. May nearly said something, but he waved her off. “Can we have a moment?”
May and Gwen both looked at one another, then back at Peter. May nodded. Gwen followed her out, leaving the two boys alone. Harry closed the doors after the women, and looked at Peter curiously.
“LaMuerto--”
“I know you’re gay,” Peter blurted.
Harry quieted, his eyes widening. The two boys remained silent for a few moments, allowing the realization to settle. The dyed-black-haired boy spoke up first.
“How long?”
“Today. Rich spilled it,” Peter explained.
Harry shook his head, looking away to mouth “Rich” in frustration. He turned his attention back to Peter. “So, are we cool?”
Peter smiled, nervous amusement rising. “Of course. God, Harry, I don’t care. It changes nothing.”
Some stiffness, some intensity in Harry that Peter had never noticed faded, relieving the boy and drawing an exasperated sigh.
“Thank Christ. I don’t know why—“
“What does bother me is that you wouldn’t tell me. You didn’t trust me,” Peter said.
Harry’s lips pursed. “Excuse me? You of all people—“
“I understand. I—I shouldn’t talk. So, I won’t…anymore. Not about it. I just want you to trust me,” Peter stated.
“Trust is a two-way street.”
“I know,” Peter smiled, fully this time. “I’m with you all the way.”
A grin flickered on Harry’s face. His cheeks reddened slightly, and he glanced away for a moment, before returning his gaze to Peter. Silence settled over the two. Neither spoke.
“So…” Peter eventually began. “Work?”
“Hell naw,” Harry grinned. “Later. You get better. We’ll worry about…crazy supervillains.”
“Kay. Thanks,” Peter said.
Harry nodded the comment off and headed for the door. However, before he could reach it, Peter stopped him.
“Harry.”
“Yeah?” The boy turned back.
“The symbiote?” Peter asked.
Harry glanced at Peter’s wrist. The brunet followed his gaze. A black wristband had slipped over beside his hospital band. Peter looked back at Harry and nodded in thanks.
“I’ll leave you to your adoring fans,” Harry teased, opening the door to leave.
“Then why’re you leaving?”
Harry chuckled, met Peter’s gaze once more, and then left.
…
A short while later, after the doctor had run a few tests, and May and Gwen had left to allow Peter to rest, the boy slipped into a deep sleep. When, at last, the darkness overcame him, he found himself near immediately in a dimly lit room. He inspected the area as the lights—torches—gradually grew brighter. Eventually, he could see patterns on the stone walls. Murals. Stories of two warriors battling to the death. An altar.
The scene shifted to outside the temple, where on a grassy field Peter discovered two three-story tall spiders hissing and beating one another. The first’s hairy back glistened red and blue, while the other was as black as night. The fight was ferocious and quick-paced, both creatures unafraid to take a blow to give one.
Slowly, as Peter became more captivated by the death match, the spiders’ forms shifted into that of Peter in his original homemade costume and Black Tarantula. The two fought as primally and brutally as the spiders. Peter shrunk back, sweat beading down his neck. It couldn’t be real.
A voice—familiar yet unknown—hissed in the back of his mind, ”If you don't kill her, she will take from you your city, your legacy, and everyone that you love.”
Corpses slowly emerged from the dirt at Peter’s feet. May. Gwen. Harry. Mary Jane. Blackie. Rich. Robbie Robertson. Flash. Liz. The number increased exponentially, as even the corpses of those already fallen began to engulf Peter and crushed him under their weight. He tried to scream but no sound came out. Only a slick, hairy black spider crawled up out of the back of his throat.
Then, everything faded to black again, and Peter jerked up out of his bed, sweating and panting. He looked around the room. He was alone.
But not entirely. The symbiote slithered down his arm into a wristband again, going unnoticed by the terrified boy.
Peter was far from alone.