"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you, Peter. The universe has ways of making things right. Believe me when I say karma is a *****."
I can't help but smile. I've been kind of worried about Peter since I took him in. What he went through would certainly cause some trauma in his life. This teen-angst-love-he-said-she-said crap seems to confirm that he's a normal teenager.
"The normal teenage problems aside, you're doing good? I believe report cards are due home in a few weeks. I don't expect these distractions to take away from your grades, but I'll be disappointed if they do. You're a smart boy, Peter. You remind me of myself in many ways when I was your age."
"Well, hey, um....thanks. Seriously. I mean, after all you've done for me, taking me in, looking out for me..."
...accidentally giving me superpowers....
"I can't really thank you enough, Mr. Osborn. I can only hope to do even half of what you've done, so....thanks. It means a lot."
Norman and I share one of those "meaningful male bonding" smiles, then I stretch and get off the couch before things get a little too gay.
"Well, anyway, I'm gonna wash up and turn in for the night. Glad we talked; we should really do this more often."
With that, I head upstairs, quickly stash my Spider-Man outfit and web-shooters back in the trusty old duffel bag, and hop on the computer to catch up on my daily sites.
Nothing new on the Onion....
....no new reviews on IGN worth reading....
....no new comments on my wacky and totally epic Flash fan-fiction series (which I haven't really been able to complete ever since I started being a
real superhero)....
....man, there's got to be
something going on tonight....
*******
In a nondescript warehouse deep in the Bowery, L. Thompson Lincoln eyed his operation carefully as his men unloaded a shipment of heroin from a large unmarked truck. It was risky bringing in vulnerable shipments like this when he knew he had pressure on all sides, but he didn't know when he would be able to get any new merchandise. After being attacked by Spider-Man and losing ground to the police, the Big Man decided the wisest move was to hole up, gather as much merchandise and ammunition as possible, and wait for the heat to die down.
The gangster's underlings all flinched a little when the large garage door opened, only to see it was a familiar black sedan. As it pulled up into the warehouse, out stepped Hammerhead, the Big Man's right-hand, followed by the trio of Montana, Ox, and Fancy Dan--the Enforcers.
"Any luck finding the Tinkerer?" Lincoln said with feigned interest, having sent the four of them to find his former favorite weapon-smith and punish him for failing once again with the transformation of Flint Marko.
"No sign of him," Hammerhead said, disappointed.
"His whole lab was cleared out by the time we got there; he musta skipped town after lettin' Marko escape. Maybe all that stuff they said about him being a CIA spook is true."
"No matter," the Big Man said dismissively.
"If he does show his face again, I trust you'll make a point to bash it in for me."
"Believe me, boss, nothin' would give me greater..." Hammerhead trailed off, noticing a trio of SUVs pulling up towards the warehouse.
"DOWN!"
As the cronies dived for cover, a man in a black ski mask leaned out the window of the lead SUV, a machine-pistol in his hand, laying down a sweeping spray of gunfire.
"Manfredi," The Big Man said to no one in particular, a cold, bitter anger in his voice. The Don of Manhattan had finally decided to make his move on Brooklyn.
The SUVs pulled up just outside the warehouse, setting themselves up as a barricade to block the door. As the Enforcers returned fire, their bullets bounced harmlessly off of the trucks' armored panels. Four to each vehicle, a dozen gunmen poured out, armed with Uzis and light sub-machine guns, firing into the Big Man's hideout.
"So that's how it's going to be," Lincoln said, with a sigh of resignation, before reaching into his jacket and pulling a heavy, silver-plated Colt .45 from his shoulder holster.
He had tried to be the Big Man, to cut a name and an empire for himself, to prove that he could be a boss and not just a ruthless killer. Apparently Silvermane would not allow that, still believing him to be the ungrateful hitman Tombstone.
While Hammerhead and the Enforcers moved from cover to cover to get to a good firing position, Lincoln carefully aimed his pistol at one of the Maggia gunmen and squeezed off a single shot, catching him right in between the eyes and splattering the gunman's brains out the back of his head.
If it was Tombstone that Silvermane wanted.....then it was Tombstone he would get.
*******
Far from the loud and calamitous gunfire in Brooklyn, a hushed meeting was taking place behind closed doors, in the smoke-filled back room of a restaurant in Chinatown. The Triads had gained a lot of prestige and momentum since the arrival of their new boss Mister Negative, but had also been losing more men. By making a name for himself, Mister Negative had made enemies of the Puerto Rican "Wasps," the Russians, the Yakuza, and most of all, the Maggia.
Tonight, a conclave of higher-ups in the Triads were discussing the possibility of mutiny.
"But we cannot simply ignore the power we've gained in this city since he came here!" one of the younger men said, arguing on Negative's behalf.
"We cannot ignore the deaths, either," said another, older man.
"And not just our muscle on the street, but those of us towards the top as well!"
"This is a dangerous time for us," chimed in a third.
"But I believe our gains in New York outweigh the losses we have taken, no matter how gruesome. With Negative leading us, we can outmatch any other organization in the city. Silvermane himself would--*hrrrk!*"
The man's voice was cut off by a gurgling, a spurt of blood bubbling in his throat. The other Triads bolted up from their seats as the man fell forward, revealing a curved kukri knife embedded in his back.
A low growl emanated from the darkened corner of the room, followed by a blur of motion, a large man moving with the speed and grace of a seasoned predator.
Guns were drawn, knives unsheathed, but as the Chinese gangsters searched for their attacker, they fell one by one to an array of exotic, if primitive, weaponry.
Poison darts.
Sharpened boomerangs.
Heavy bolas.
Throwing axes.
Despite their superior firepower, the Triads were picked off painfully and ruthlessly by a man using weapons more suited for a tribal hunter-gatherer.
As the sole surviving gangster fired wildly at the attacker, he felt a sharp punch in his stomach, followed by a burning pain that sent him crumpled to the ground in agony. He clutched the wound, finding the stalk of a spear sticking out from his abdomen.
"So easily you fall," the attacker said, emerging from the shadows, revealing himself. He was an enormous, musclebound, grim-faced man, his uncovered chest and arms covered in tattoos that were broken up only by large, angry scars--particularly a series of deep claw marks across his chest. He looked down on the bleeding Triad, piercing green eyes practically gleaming from behind his long black hair.
"You would make a very poor trophy."
"P-p-please..." he said in ragged gasps and broken English.
"Don't....d-don't kill me!"
The man's stoic face grew sour at the thought.
"No sport in killing you. Besides, I need you alive. Tell Mister Negative that Silvermane sends his regards.....and that Kraven is now on the hunt."
*******
Luke Cage walked the streets of Hell's Kitchen alone, in his plain clothes tonight, rather than the uniform that he had come to know. Even without the mask, he walked the most dangerous streets in the city without fear. For while the sins and evils of men surrounded him, he carried with him the mission and the drive to bring true justice to those who deserved it.
In a city of sinners, he was a Devil.
Their guerilla campaign had thus far been effective in removing many of Silvermane's operatives from the Kitchen, and every day, they grew concerned about the possibility of reprisals. Earlier tonight, they had lost contact with two of their own, who had been sent to clean out a drug den in one of the low-rent projects. Murdock had sent Cage to find out what had become of them.
Ducking inconspicuously into an alley behind the building where his fellow Devils had been sent, Cage found a gutter pipe and began climbing up towards an open window.
As he climbed in through the window, he pulled out a flashlight and turned it on.
"Damn," was all he was able to manage as he looked over the scene.
The room was full of at least a dozen people, mostly junkies, a few pushers, some armed, most not. Every last one of them was dead, killed by a single bullet either to the head or through the heart.
In the center of the room, two corpses slumped back-to-back, tied to a pair of chairs. They wore the red masks that identified them as Murdock's Devils. Number 4 and 5, the ones who had gone missing. Again, a single bullet each.
Cage inspected the bodies more closely, and found a note pinned to one of them, with only three words:
Compliments of Silvermane
Rather than a signature, the note was signed only with a symbol. Three concentric circles, with a dot in the middle.
A bullseye.
******
Beneath the subway tunnels of Manhattan, Doctor Otto Octavius crouched in his filthy hovel, hidden far away from the world he had tried so hard to help.
He could have done so much good, given so much to the world. But all he was given was shoddy funding, substandard equipment, and impossible deadlines. All of which culminated in a disaster which took his Mary away from him.....which turned him into what he was now.
Still, he knew he would rebuild. He would find a way to recreate his experiment, his fusion device that would change the world forever. Then everyone would finally see his genius, his superiority. They would
all see....
....but how? He could never get backing in the state he was in now, with the blood of the woman he had pined after on his hands. To complete his grand vision, he needed money. To acquire said money, he needed power.
He had tried to accumulate more power by finding a kindred spirit, one who had been elevated beyond the capacities of lesser men. However, the Sandman had eluded him, and once again, he was left alone.
Above in the streets, he heard sirens, police cars passing overhead. He scrambled to the small radio he had acquired and tuned it to the news.
"--unsure of the exact numbers, but reports of gang violence on a citywide scale tonight, as several locations all across New York have been attacked. Most of the violence seems to be between rival gangs, primarily the infamous Maggia syndicate, possibly looking to eliminate the smaller, lesser-equipped gangs. More on the situation as it--"
Otto switched off the radio, and a smile began to play across his face. This could prove to be most advantageous.
He had heard reports of organized crime families hiring "super-villains" to carry out their work. Perhaps in their desperation to fight off the Maggia, one of the lesser gangs would find themselves in need of a new brain to create weapons and monsters for them. And thus, he would have access to the organization, the manpower, and most importantly, the
money that he needed. Then it was a simple matter of toppling the existing leadership and taking control of said syndicate himself.
A new idea fresh in his mind, Doctor Octopus picked himself out of his filth and began to work. His drive was now reignited....
....and his thoughts were sinister.
*******
Late into the night, the basement still sounded with the low thrumming of the sewing machine. The stitching had to be right, the layers and seams all in the correct place, especially when it came to the decorative patterns all over.
After all, this was a big project, and she wanted it to be perfect.
"Okay, that takes care of that seam.....now to put the next bit on top...."
Ever since learning her best friend was in fact an unregistered mutant who was running around as a crime-fighting vigilante, Gwen Stacy had thrown hours and hours of her free time every day into a special project, one that she started out as a present for Peter's birthday.
Even though she was still upset with him, Gwen toiled away on her surprise. For starters, because it was something to take her mind off of all the pressure she was getting from her admittedly unhappy relationship and the fact that there was next to nothing she could do about it. And secondly, since Peter's birthday was still a month away, she assumed that Peter would come around by then.
Besides, it was coming along too nicely for her to stop now.
Her dad originally gave her a skeptical look at the beginning of her project, when she came home having spent all of her allowance on rolls of canvas and leather and dye. However, she was able to convince him it was just another hobby of hers--she had gone into similar seclusion the year before when she made costumes for Peter and herself for the New York Comic Con. Now that it was nearing completion, she made it a point to hide everything away when she wasn't working on it.
Gwen took another piece of leather and carefully laid it out onto the canvas, taking very careful measurements before beginning to sculpt it into the right shape.
"Theeere we go...."
For months now, Peter had been fighting gangsters and super-powered killers wearing a ski mask and a black hoodie. And while he had certainly saved lives, the press still considered him just as much of a threat as the villains he fought. Gwen believed that part of the problem was just that he looked too much like one of the bad guys, and had set out to make him an outfit that gave a little friendlier appearance.
Taking Peter's old measurements from his Comic Con costume, she made a tight-fitting bodysuit out of durable canvas and dyed it blue. It didn't exactly fit the spider theme, but she liked it, and it sent the right message. From the superheroes in the comics, to both the old and new Captain America, to the color of Luke Skywalker's lightsaber, it was the right kind of color: good guys wear blue.
For added protection, she was layering interlocking sections of segmented leather, tougher than the canvas but still flexible enough that Peter could move around. The leather was ugly and dull in its original brown, so she tried a different primary color, and dyed it a deep red. It was a good contrast, exciting to look at, and continued the image of a genuine superhero rather than just a masked troublemaker.
"Gwen? Honey?" George Stacy called down to her from upstairs. Gwen jolted for a second, then hastily threw a sheet over the garb.
"Down here, Dad," she called back up.
"I just got called in to work," he said, coming down the stairs as he still fussed with putting on his jacket.
"I can't go into it, but it's something big. I'll probably be out late, so make sure to lock all the doors before you go to bed. And don't stay up too late."
"I won't," she lied, knowing that she was going to be working on her surprise for Peter for at least another two or three hours.
"You be careful out there."
"Don't worry, Pumpkin," he said, giving his daughter a kiss on the cheek.
"I'll be fine."
*******
Tombstone stood statuesque in the center of his warehouse, Hammerhead, the Enforcers, and his remaining henchmen emerging victorious from the firefight with Silvermane's hit squad. Five of his men had been hit, three of whom were already dead. Not a single one of the Maggia gunmen survived.
The sounds of distant police sirens grew ever closer, and Hammerhead cast a look towards his boss.
"Ermm, Big Man? We need to get moving," he said, as Montana climbed into their sedan and fired up the engine.
"Big Man? You okay?"
Tombstone's gaze was fixed on the carnage before him, the tattered corpses of the men his old employer had sent to kill him.
"This is it, Hammerhead," he finally spoke up, his hateful yellow eyes still locked onto the dead gunmen.
"This is the spark that finally sets it all off."
The albino man took a deep breath, then finally turned away from the scene and walked towards the sedan.
"Gentlemen, we are now at war."
