Post by Drake on Dec 31, 2014 0:58:21 GMT -5
#6: Rise of the Sinister Six Part 3
Private Affairs
By Drake
My eyes open. Sun’s bright. Too bright. I sit up suddenly, causing my savior, the Spider-Woman-with-a-cooler-costume-than-me to flinch back. Looking at her costume, her figure, man, am I jealous! She looks so athletic, so bad ass! Me? I’m just a skinny teen in a hoodie. ‘Couse I’d never tell her I thought that. Gotta be cool. What if we’re, like, destined to be together? I think I’ve read that in a comic before. Eagleman and Eaglewoman or something, lovers through all times…
Damn it! Focus, Peter! Sun’s high in the sky and bright, which means—
“It’s almost eleven,” Spider-Woman says. Makes me almost think she read my mind until she admits, “Which means I’ve gotta go.”
Twice. She saved my life twice. Forget the fact that she’s totally copying my costume, my powers, everything. She’s awesome, and she completely pulls off the spandex look, which, let me tell you brain-of-mine, isn’t easy.
But class. Oh shit! Class! I scramble to my feet, completely ignoring anything but my backpack. I grab it, yell ‘bye’ and swing away.
“I’m glad you’re okay!” she shouts, before swinging off too.
Great. Even under the mask, all my social anxiety hidden away, I still can’t talk to a girl. Imagine I see her without the mask, what’ll I be like? Why would I have a chance with her? Then again…
I’m Spider-Man. Who wouldn’t want to date Spider-Man?
----
Luck was not on Peter’s side. First off, it turned out he’d lost his class sheet so he had to go online to find where all his classes were. Second, the campus was hard to navigate even for a teenaged superhuman. Third, he’d had to ditch his backpack at the last second, realizing far too late that webbing-for-patches wasn’t considered normal. A fifty-dollar backpack—so cool with so many compartments—had to be tossed aside for some stupid upperclassman to steal.
Then, of course, Peter barged into British Lit 101 mid-intro lecture. The professor, Doctor Alexander Thoreau, was not pleased—at all.
“Excuse me?” Dr. Thoreau stopped Peter before he could sneak up the aisle to a desk.
“Uh, sorry, I just—“ Peter tried to speak up, but Dr. Thoreau took control.
“And would you happen to be a Ms. Stacy or a Ms. Watson?” Thoreau asked, much to the class’s amusement. Giggles and snorts reminded Peter of memories he’d much rather have forgotten.
“Parker. Mister Peter Parker,” the teen replied, edging slowly towards a cold demeanor.
“Well, Mr. Parker, you are late.”
“I know; I—“
“I don’t care why you’re late. If you can’t be bothered to arrive on time then I cannot be bothered to care about or teach you,” Thoreau continued coolly. Peter’s jaw dropped. He could hear whispers echo towards him, students either laughing at his misfortune or bumbling about the professor’s cruelty.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Peter exclaimed.
“No, Mr. Parker, I am not ‘kidding you.’ You must leave now. Arrive on time in two days for our next session or else you will be kicked out of class entirely,” Thoreau said. He eyed Peter, who merely blushed and ducked out of the room.
On his way out, Peter walked into a girl—a girl he recognized all too well.
“Gwen. Gwen Stacy,” Peter muttered dumbly, before noticing the redhead at her back, “And Mary Jane.”
“Hi, Peter,” Gwen said hurriedly, before rushing past him. Mary Jane nodded in greeting, and followed the blonde. Peter was left dumbstruck as the door closed behind him. ‘Ms. Stacy,’ he thought, ‘Ms. Watson.’ If they were late, that meant…
Peter walked to the wall across from the door and leaned against it. He stared intently at what he’d decided was the gate to Hell, completely ignoring his backpack which lay on the ground just a few feet away. He gave them thirty seconds. Peter ended up waiting for a full hour before the door to the classroom opened. By that point he’d noticed his bag, grabbed it and removed the webbing.
Gwen and Mary Jane weren’t the first people to leave. In fact, they were near the back of the crowd of students. Some gave him a wary glance, others pitying. He couldn’t believe what just happened. He should go in there and give Dr. Thoreau a a talking to—Uncle Ben-style. What gave him the right to pick on Peter for being late, and then excuse two other students?
When at last Gwen’s blonde head bobbed through the doorway, Peter wasted no time driving his angry thoughts to the back of his mind and hopping up to meet the girl.
“Hey, Gwen!” Peter greeted.
“Pe—Peter?” Gwen’s reactionary smile faded to a frown of concern, “You waited…an hour…for me?”
“Uh…right. I mean no!” Peter scratched the back of his head embarrassedly as Mary Jane emerged from Hell, walking up to the two students, “I, uh, really wanna give Dr. Thoreau a piece of my mind.”
“Ohmigod, he kicked you out of class?” Gwen said, putting two and two together.
“Hey, Gwen, and uh…Peter,” MJ was to them now. Only now did Peter realize that the two girls were friends. “What’s wrong?”
“I got kicked out of class for being late,” Peter explained.
“What? But we were late too,” MJ said, before pausing and covering her mouth, “Oh. Oh wow.”
“That sexist, perverted son of a bitch,” Gwen muttered angrily, “I knew he was checking me out as we entered…”
That drew Peter’s attention, not to the fact that the professor was a pervert, but that Gwen was dressed in a really hot, tight short skirt. The white blouse didn’t hurt either, revealing just enough for…Peter shook the thoughts away. Control the hormones, he thought.
“…Peter? Peter??” MJ continued.
“Wha—oh right, that pervert!” Peter declared, before noticing the two girls were frowning at him. He blushed and glanced at the ground. “What did you say?”
“I said: I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” MJ repeated, pointing to Gwen and Peter. The blonde looked at him to respond.
“I could say the same. I mean…sorry, that came out douchey. Uh, yeah, we met in the library a couple nights ago. We—“
“She’s my roommate,” Gwen interjected, her face flushed. Peter paused, confused, before realizing what Gwen was implying; before he remembered why she hadn’t been in her dorm in the first place that night. Peter blushed furiously and glanced at the ground.
“Right…” MJ nodded, picking up on the awkwardness. She paused to look at her phone for the time, before walking backwards, “Oh shit! I’ve got another class in, like, ten minutes. I’ll talk to you guys later, ‘kay? Gwen will catch me up on everything!”
“Bye!” Gwen waved.
“See ya,” Peter said.
When the redhead was out of sight—and out of the building—the two turned their attention back to each other.
“So…that was a close call,” Peter managed to laugh.
“Yeah,” Gwen couldn’t help herself either.
When the two settled down, they began walking slowly in the direction they’d come, towards the front of the building. Gwen frowned, drawing Peter’s attention.
“What?” Peter asked.
“You were going to talk to Dr. Thoreau, right?” Gwen said.
“Right! Right…” Peter shrugged his shoulders, “I’ll do it later. I’m feeling kind’ve hungry, haven’t had a bite all day.”
“Yeah, me too,” Gwen admitted. She looked up at Peter. He refused to meet her gaze, too nervous to face her. He knew what she was hinting at. Speak, Peter, damn it!
“…How do you know Mary?” Gwen asked, a twinge of hesitation in her voice. She was frowning again, and looking away from Peter. Why would she frown? Unless…
“Oh no! No no no no no!” Peter quickly said, “It’s not like that. We never…um, we’re neighbors. Our aunts are, I mean.”
“Oh,” Gwen nodded, “So you’re not seeing anyone?” No subtlety now. Still, Peter couldn’t bring himself to act. This was college! Things had changed. Peter could too. He just needed to speak up.
“No,” was all he managed. He knew the things he could say. Something smooth like ‘unless you agree to go on a date with me.” No, that was stupid. But he had to admit it was better than nothing. He just needed to speak.
SPEAK!
“Do you wanna eat lunch? With me? Now?” Peter said it. He really said it. And then she said…
“Yes.”
And his world was right. Everything would work out; nothing could go wrong…until his phone vibrated and he looked at it. The teen frowned.
“Peter…?” Gwen continued, “Are you…listening to me?”
Peter looked up, his mind still on what he’d just read. He shook himself out of it.
“Yeah! Oh yeah. I…I really want to go on a date with you, like, right now,” Peter glanced at his phone again, “But I just got this emergency text…from my aunt.” He finished.
“Oh my God! Is she alright?” Gwen asked, any irritation gone.
“Sorta. Family emergency,” Peter said, “I really have to go! I am so, so sorry! I mean, sorry doesn’t even begin to cut it, but--” He began to back up, but Gwen grabbed his hand, stopping and silencing him. She pulled a pen out of her purse and wrote something on his hand with it. A number. It was a number.
“That’s my number. Call me or text me when you can,” Gwen said, before adding on, “I hope everything works out!”
“I’ll text you later, I promise. And everything will be fine!” Peter said. He turned away and ran out the building, whispering to himself, “Everything’ll be fine…”
Then again, maybe not. The text he’d gotten was more than just a message—it was an alert…a police alert. There had been a jailbreak. Dozens of cops and prisoners were injured. Only three criminals had escaped, but those three were more than enough to wreak havoc in New York. Of anyone, Peter should know. He’d been the one to stop them the first time around.
Abner Jenkins. Jason Macendale. Maxwell Dillon.
Three cold-blooded killers. Three killers Spider-Man had put away.
Worst of all, Peter had a feeling it wasn’t a coincidence that they had been the ones to escape. One thing was for sure; he was in for a hell of a day.
So much for lunch.
----
“Give The Mole a bonus,” Adrian Toomes said, “For a job well done.”
The three escapees stood in front of him in a line, while Felicia Hardy was at his side, looking the criminals over coolly. Max Dillon tapped his foot impatiently, arms crossed. Abner Jenkins had his hands behind his back and remained calm. Jason Macendale glanced around the room frantically, as if there was something climbing on the walls. All three were still in their prison orange.
“Sir?” Hardy wondered.
“If your…employees do their job, you treat them well. If they fail to meet expectations, there are consequences. To build loyalty, yes?” Toomes glared out over his ‘employees,’ “And to instill fear.”
“Man, I think you got the wrong idea. I work for nobody but me,” Dillon declared, jamming his thumb into his chest to prove a point.
“Stupid boy, you are under Adrian Toomes’ control now. Do as he pleases or die,” Jenkins replied in a thick eastern European accent.
“Toomes? That you?” Dillon held his hands out towards the bird-like man on the throne.
“Of course,” Toomes cawed, “Please understand something, Mr. Dillon. You have two options. The first, you refuse to work for me and you die. The second, you do as I say, gain abilities unimaginable to someone as insignificant as you, and squash the Spider-Man.”
“Spider-Man? Where?” Macendale backed up, terrified, “All over. Webs. I—I must squash the Spider-Man.” He agreed, calming slightly.
Dillon turned his attention from the head-case back to Toomes, “Now that Jack O’loonie over there’s done, please continue. I’m likin’ what I’m hearin’.”
----
Peter walked irritably up the steps of Jameson Hall, his dorm building. The building itself was incredibly nice—updated with the latest AC and heating tech much to the upperclassmen’s dismay—and was named after the donor who’d given the money for its creation: J. Jonah Jameson. Whether it be fate or bad luck, Peter couldn’t escape his boss wherever he went.
The part-time superhero reached into his pocket for the keys to his room. A wallet, his phone and…nothing else. Crap, that’s right! He’d left it in his backpack. He swung his bag around and looked inside it. Nothing. In fact, the bag was rather oddly missing a lot of things. He probably shouldn’t have ripped out all the web-patches.
Peter took a deep breath and knocked, praying his roommate was there.
A voice came from inside, “Who is it?”
There was a God. “It’s Peter. I lost my key; can you open up?”
The door swung open to expose Richard Rider in all his ‘bro-licious’ glory. Just looking at the brunet, Peter could tell he was on a one-way trip to frat island. The smell of booze on his breath definitely didn’t help. Great. Just great. Rush would be fantastic.
“’Sup, Pete. Can I call you Pete?” Richard asked as Peter entered the room. He immediately went for a locker in the back of the room, one of the few things he’d unpacked. He needed a new costume before setting out again. Hell, he needed a new backpack.
“Pete’s fine,” the teen said, pulling a duffel bag out from a box, and doing his damndest to hide what was inside his locker as he opened it.
Richard sat back on his bed, grabbing a remote and muting the small TV he’d set up across from his bed atop a stack of moving boxes. “Just wanted to say sorry about the other night. That was so totally not cool of me. We hadn’t even met and I—“
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Peter threw his costume into the duffel bag and tightened it. “First day parties, I get it.” Peter threw the bag over his shoulder and stood up.
“Listen, I know…well, I know the type of impression that leaves on a guy, and I know what I look like. Hell, I can’t say I’m not the same book whose cover you’re seeing right now.” The analogy almost made Peter laugh. Almost. He began his approach to the door.
“Like I said, don’t worry, Richard—“
“Please call me Rich.”
“Rich, right…” Peter paused at the door, “Just…well, I’ll be out and about a lot. There’ll probably be plenty of days I come in really late, maybe looking a little rough. Don’t ask questions, and I won’t either. No judging.”
“That’s great and all—I mean, I’m all for no judging—but I don’t want this to be like that. Believe me, I’ve heard all the horror stories about freshman year roommates. I know what I look like to you, and I know what you probably think you look like to me. I don’t want it to be like that. I want to be friends.”
That caught Peter off guard. Everything about this guy reminded Peter of Flash Thompson, and yet…was that such a bad thing? Flash had changed. Hell, he was training right now to risk his life like Peter, but he didn’t have powers. Maybe Richard…Rich wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
Peter smiled and turned to his roommate, “No judging though, right?”
Rich grinned, realizing he’d broken through, “Absolutely.”
“Great. I’ll see ya later, Rich,” Peter opened up the door, but his roommate stopped him before he could leave.
“Wait, Pete!” Rich stood up to meet him. He held out his hand in a fist—something that had once been the sign of Peter’s eternal torment. “Bro bump.” Peter hesitated. “C’mon!”
Peter bumped his hand, and Rich’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.
“See ya,” Rich said.
Peter nodded goodbye and tried to leave again, before stopping himself this time. He peeked in through the doorway.
“Rich, you mind leaving this unlocked?” Peter asked.
“No problemo.”
“Thanks!”
And with that Peter headed out. By the time his mask was on, as he stood atop the roof of Jameson Hall, his mood had darkened considerably. Now he had to track down and beat three hardened criminals. Jenkins was a trained merc. Dillon a petty thug turned murderer. And Macendale…he was the worst of all.
Jason Macendale was a complete psycho.
----
“Jason Macendale’s a complete psycho,” Dillon whispered to Jenkins as the two stood outside Toomes’ throne room to wait. “So why’s he get the tech first? I mean, what if he spazzes and kills us all? You heard Toomes, right? Says he’s gonna help Macendale be a better Jack O’Lantern. Don’t you think putting that mask back on him might…trigger somethin’? What if he like—“
”Shut up.” Jenkins glared at Dillon, who paused before glaring right back. “I have listened to you talk nonstop for the last half hour. Please, shut up. If you do not, I swear to God I will—“
The door in front of the two opened, silencing Jenkins. Felicia Hardy walked out.
“I’ve gotta go, boys, but Jenkins, you’re up,” Felicia winked at the foreign man before strutting out of the room. Dillon didn’t even try to hide his stare as the woman walked past and out of the shady waiting room to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. Only after she left did Dillon realize he’d been left for last.
“Wait a second—“ The door to the throne room shut. Dillon reached for it, but discovered it was locked. “This some bullshit. I gotta go last?”
No response. Dillon frowned. Of course there was no response.
“I’m all alone…”
“Not for long, Mr. Dillon. If all goes as planned, you won’t be in there for but a minute.” The voice came through speakers. Dillon looked around. He couldn’t find them. Even worse, he didn’t recognize that voice. Its tone wasn’t threatening, but it was powerful even in its playfulness. Maybe Macendale’s paranoia was well met.
“The hell is going on?” Dillon demanded, backing up a step. Blue lights emerged from behind the ceiling panels and began to glow. They started dim, and slowly got brighter.
“You wanted to squash the Spider-Man, Mr. Dillon. I am here to help you do that.” The voice spoke again. “Just think of me as a friend.”
Max saw blue sparks fly through the air across the room. Then more. Oh shit…
“Let me the **** out of here!” Dillon ran across the room and tried the other doors. They were locked. “LET ME OUT!”
“Please, Mr. Dillon, remain calm,” the voice couldn’t hide its laughter, it creepily echoing into the room, “I work for Lord Toomes. You have nothing to fear.”
The floor and wall panels opened up to reveal blue lights to match the ceiling’s. Max sprinted across the room, but was knocked to the ground by a bolt of lightning. His shirt was singed, a hole burned through his shoulder. All the way through. Where tissue or bone should have been was instead blue energy, crackling with movement and power. It burned. Oh God, it BURNED!
Max stood up and ran for the door. Another bolt hit him, striking through his left knee. He fell to the ground, unable to do more than crawl. Max reached up for the door handle, clawing and screaming for help.
The voice spoke up one last time before the room was completely clouded with energy, “Heh. You might feel a slight tingling sensation. Please tell me if it gets to be too much.”
“AAHHHhhhhh!!!”
----
Peter had assumed his day couldn’t get worse, but as he leaned out over a gargoyle, looking down at his phone, he realized it could. Three escaped bad guys out for vengeance and a possible conspiracy to kill him weren’t enough. Norman Osborn had to text him. Worst of all, he had to text him with this.
I WANT A PRESS CONFERENCE WITH YOU AND I WANT IT TOMORROW. 10 AM. ARRIVE AT LEAST 15 MINUTES EARLY OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES. IT’S TIME FOR THE WORLD TO KNOW YOU’RE MINE, PETER.
But he wasn’t. He wouldn’t be. Sure, Peter would play Norman’s game, but as soon as the power hungry wackjob slipped up it would all be over for him.
After all, Peter Parker wasn’t anyone’s pawn. He was Spider-Man.