Spider-Man 2

by Peter David

  … and yet…

  “I think I always knew, all this time, who you really were,” she said. “That day you kissed me in the cemetery… it was so familiar, and I thought… but then I figured, No, it couldn’t be… but it was.”

  If Peter had looked as if he’d literally been carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders earlier, keeping the wall from collapsing upon them, he looked even more so now.

  “Then… you know why we can’t be together. Spider-Man will always have enemies. I can never let you take that risk.” He had spoken with voice quavering, but then, with more conviction, he said, “I will always be Spider-Man. You and I can never be.”

  She felt moisture welling in her eyes, and wanted to do anything at that moment except cry. Here Peter had displayed such strength, such determination, and she was going to start sobbing? It seemed unworthy of the moment. Nevertheless, for all her willpower, a few tears strayed down her cheek. Peter reached over with a gloved hand and wiped them from her face. She watched with silent awe as webs emerged from his hands and attached themselves to her. She wondered how the hell he did that—perhaps a web-shooting mechanism of some kind—and then abruptly she was off the edge of the web and being lowered to the ground, letting out an alarmed squeak as she went.

  The police cars were clustering around the pier, and Mary Jane realized that someone should tell them what the devil had just happened. Her feet touched the ground and the far ends of the web-lines fluttered down after her, released by Peter. She tugged at them tentatively, but they wouldn’t detach from her arms. Since the entire city wasn’t littered with Spider-Man webs, she reasoned that they’d eventually dissolve by themselves. “Eventually” was good enough for her; she realized she wasn’t all that anxious for them to disappear.

  Flashlights were being aimed in her direction, and she shielded her face as the police called, “Hands over your head!”

  She spread her arms to either side and, squinting against the glare, standing there soaking wet in scraps of clothing, she shouted in irritation, “Do I look like I’m armed and dangerous, for God’s sake?! Hello? Hostage here! Get a clue!”

  “Mary Jane!”

  A figure emerged from the crowd, and at first she couldn’t make out who it was because he was backlit by the red blinking lights and police searchlights. But then he took a couple of steps forward, and there was another man behind him, in a long coat. He was shoving identification in the faces of the cops, shouting, “Press! We’re press! That’s my son’s fiancée, you idiots!”

  And as J. Jonah Jameson managed to thoroughly intimidate the police through sheer force of personality and his daunting cigar, John Jameson sprinted toward her, his coat flapping around him. She took a step toward him, then staggered as everything that had transpired in the past few hours began to catch up with her. He caught her before she fell.

  “Mary Jane! Are you all right?!”

  “Well, my outfit’s shot to hell, but otherwise, yeah,” she gasped. “How did you know I was here?”

  “We didn’t. Dad and I were just driving around, monitoring police-band calls, listening for something… I don’t know, we figured if Doc Ock and Spider-Man were involved, it’d be big.”

  He stared at her, as if afraid to believe that she was real, and then he clutched her to him, rocking slowly back and forth, whispering thanks. Then he realized his hand was stuck to her back. He pulled it loose, staring uncomprehendingly at the web-strands that had attached themselves to his fingers, not recognizing them for what they were.

  “What’s this?”

  Mary Jane wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the web strung overhead. Peter was a dark and distant figure, but even from where she was, she could see him pull his mask on and turn his back to her. Then he fired a web-line and swung away into the night.

  “Nothing,” she said. “It’s… it’s nothing.” And she tilted her head back and let John kiss her fervently.

  Harry Osborn sat immobile in the large chair that had once been his father’s favorite. He could have been carved from stone as he stared at the TV screen showing the live news story that was unfolding down at the docks. The scene was awash with lights from police cars, and the newscaster was stating that, according to an eyewitness, Doc Ock had been involved and was responsible for a device that had been causing all manner of seismic sensations for a ten-block radius. However, according to the same eyewitness, Spider-Man had heroically thwarted the doctor’s efforts.

  Harry continued to watch as the “eyewitness,” clearly Mary Jane, was being loaded into an ambulance. She looked banged up but otherwise unhurt; obviously, this was just to play it safe. Her tall, strapping fiancé was climbing in with her. And there was J. Jonah Jameson, waving the TV cameras back, shouting, “No comment! No comment! You can all read about it in the Daily Bugle tomorrow! Exclusive! Now get that damned camera out of her face!”

  Finally, Harry’s hand made a slight movement, over to the remote control. He pushed a button and the television obediently shut off. He placed the remote next to an untouched glass of scotch that sat next to him.

  Mary Jane, his former girlfriend, with another man. Peter Parker, his former friend, revealed to be Spider-Man… the man who had killed his father. Spider-Man… the savior of the city. That’s how it was going to play out. Even Jameson’s hate-mongering rag wouldn’t be able to cover this one up. The people would worship that wall-crawling murderer.

  And then there was Harry Osborn. No girlfriend. No best friend. No father. No huge, moneymaking, breakthrough project from a brilliant scientist.

  Nothing. He had nothing.

  He was like the emptiness of space, a vacuum, cold and airless. And didn’t nature abhor a vacuum?

  He leaned forward in his chair, buried his face in his hands. His shoulders started to shake, and he thought about the balcony a mere thirty feet away. He knew that, because he’d been pacing the distance from the chair to the balcony, over and over, contemplating the peace that would come from hurling himself over the edge.

  Thirty little feet. That was all it would take. He just had to move thirty feet… plus one more.

  If he did that, then at long last, he’d be with his father. At that moment, Harry Osborn believed he would do anything, absolutely anything, for that to be the case. He wanted to be with his father more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.

  Was it not a consumation devoutly to be wished?

  That was the moment when he heard a cackle echoing through the apartment. It was soft and seductive, and it chilled him to the bone… but it was also somehow comforting, as insane as that sounded.

  He looked up and glanced around for the source. “Hello?” he called tentatively.

  No answer came.

  Slowly, on shaky legs, Harry rose from the chair. The television had been the only illumination in the room; Harry had found the darkness to be of comfort. Now it seemed to be hiding something… some new intruder.

  But there was no one there. He was sure of it. He walked to the door, looked outside the room. Still nothing.

  “If thou didst ever thy dear father love, revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.”

  Harry whipped around, taking in the entire study with a glance. He suddenly discovered he was seeing better in the darkness than he would have thought. “Who’s that?” he called out.

  “Son,” the voice came back to him, and he realized he couldn’t tell whether he was actually hearing it, or if it was coming from within his head.

  He was standing by his father’s mask collection. It had always creeped him out before. Now he found it oddly familiar. The voice… the voice had been unmistakable. Yet Harry couldn’t bring himself to believe it. It made no sense. That voice’s owner… he couldn’t possibly…

  “Yes… I’m here.”

  Harry turned quickly, as if speed would enable him to catch whomever it was who was mounting this sick practical joke. He caught his own reflection in an ornate, full-length mir
ror, started to turn away, and then looked back in horror. It wasn’t his own face in the mirror.

  It was Norman Osborn’s face, grinning out at him as if he’d passed through the looking glass into Wonderland, and was encouraging Harry to step through to join him.

  “Dad,” Harry said in confusion mixed with fear. “But… you’re…”

  Norman shook his head. “No. I’m alive in you, Harry. It’s your turn now. You’re an Osborn. You swore an oath!”

  “Dad…” Harry was no longer questioning the reality of what he was seeing. Instead, he was just trying to cope with explaining himself to something that might have been coming not from any twilight realm, but from the guilt-ridden recesses that lay within him. “I don’t know… how can I… ?”

  “You can. You must,” Norman told him with growing insistence. “You put your word, my money, our name on the line. You swore to make Spider-Man pay. Now make him pay!”

  Harry shook his head—not in disagreement, but to cast the confusion from his mind. “Peter’s my best friend…”

  “And I’m your father. Don’t you miss me? I worry about you.” His tone became a befuddling combination of sympathy and contempt. “Harry, you’re weak. You always were weak. You always will be weak, until you take control. Now you know the truth. Be strong, Harry. Avenge me. AVENGE ME!”

  Harry stepped back, terrified, and appalled at what he was witnessing. He tried to make it go away through force of will, telling himself that his father wasn’t here, and still the face of Norman Osborn glared at him from the mirror, with burning eyes.

  Screaming, “Nooooo,” Harry grabbed the glass of scotch and threw it as hard as he could.

  It crashed into the mirror, smashing it to pieces, shards flying everywhere. Harry felt one dizzying moment of elation. At least he had triumphed over his own visions, though they were out to drive him insane with—

  He stopped, and stood there, gaping.

  For there, in a space revealed by the broken mirror, the face of the Green Goblin was staring back at him.

  His first impulse was to back up, and yet—as if on their own—his legs moved him forward. He was in his stocking feet, and small bits of glass dug into his soles. He didn’t care. All the pain did was serve as proof that he was, in fact, awake.

  The mask wasn’t moving, or talking to him. It merely hung there, staring at him. As he approached, he was able to make out other things behind it. It wasn’t just a space; there was an entire hidden workshop behind the mirror. There was the familiar glider on its stand. The armored suit in a case. He realized the mask itself was sitting on a workbench, propped upright. Harry hesitated, then picked it up and examined it, confusion playing across his face. The confusion gave way to growing horror, then to realization that totally reordered his world, turned everything around, was too much… too much…

  And his mind splintered and broke apart as profoundly and thoroughly as the mirror he had just shattered. He gripped the mask, shaking wildly, uncontrollably.

  Then—just like that—the moment passed. The trembling subsided. And very softly, almost to himself…

  … he began to laugh a familiar laugh.

  XXVII

  Mary Jane stared at herself in the mirror, and wondered if she wasn’t looking at another person altogether.

  “Oh, honey, you look so beautiful,” whispered her mother, Madeline Watson, kissing her on the cheek. Mary Jane smiled gamely and looked to the left and right, admiring her reflection.

  The wedding dress was based on a design by the late Willi Smith, and it was unquestionably breathtaking. Louise, as her maid of honor, was helping with some last-minute adjustments. It was remarkable to Mary Jane how she had become so close with her fellow actress in such a short period of time. That, and it also pointed out to her what few female friends she had.

  She couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day for the wedding. The sky was cloudless and clear blue, and the harrowing experiences with Doc Ock seemed a distant thing of the past. Almost as if they had happened to someone else.

  She’d kept peeking out through the door, peering into the church sanctuary to watch the growing number of people who were arriving. She’d spotted Harry Osborn, who was looking far more relaxed than she’d seen him in a long time. He’d been speaking with John and laughing. A lot. Which was odd, considering Harry was never much of a laugher. It was nice to see the change, though, and she hoped it bode well for him.

  And there had been her aunt Anna, and some of the old gang, such as Liz Allen, who was arm in arm with Flash Thompson, if you could believe that. She should have known. Liz had always been circling the outskirts of that relationship.

  Then there were John’s friends, and his dad’s friends. A vast assortment of city bigwigs and movers and shakers. The organ music was playing steadily, and soon it would switch over to the Chopin piece that was supposed to indicate the start of the ceremony in which she would be married to Pe—

  John. She would be married to John.

  My God, what if I say, “I, Mary Jane, take thee—” and say the wrong name, like on that sitcom. What if I muff my lines? What if—

  “Honey?” asked Madeline. “Are you all right? You’re shaking.”

  “I’m fine. Really,” Mary Jane insisted, inspecting her makeup for the twentieth time. “I just… I feel like I’m about to step out and play the biggest scene of my life in front of the most demanding audience ever.”

  “Play a scene?” Louise said, and then made a slight “tsk” sound.

  “Shut up,” said Mary Jane in a tone that was supposed to sound teasing, but had more edge to it than she would have liked.

  Madeline looked from one girl to the other, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Nothing, Mom.”

  “Oookay.” Madeline turned and faced Louise squarely. “What’s going on?”

  Mary Jane and Louise exchanged fierce looks, and then Louise shrugged. “Well, I was just thinking that you play a scene because, y’know, you’re acting. And if you’re happy to be someplace and doing something, why would you be thinking of it like you were pretending to be there?”

  “Louise, we’ve been over this.”

  “Aw, dammit, Mary Jane,” said Louise in frustration, “all these months in the show, and you haven’t learned a thing about relationships?”

  “This is real life, Louise,” shot back Mary Jane. “Not The Importance of Being Honest. And if you don’t stop—”

  “Earnest,” her mother said quietly.

  “I said ‘earnest.’ ”

  Madeline looked at her for a long moment and then, without removing her gaze from her daughter, said, “Louise, could you excuse us, please?” Louise nodded, and was out the door, leaving Mary Jane and her mother alone. Madeline was holding the bouquet, but now she carefully placed it on the table. “Mary Jane, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing! So maybe I said ‘honest.’ So what. I meant ‘earnest.’ ”

  “Is it Peter?”

  The question brought Mary Jane up short, and she stared at her mother in amazement. “Why… why do you—?”

  “Because he’s not here, Mary Jane.”

  “I… didn’t invite him.”

  “Mary Jane,” said Madeline impatiently. “As if that decision alone doesn’t speak volumes. I’m not stupid, all right? I see the world around me. If Peter Parker wanted to come, he’d show up, invitation or not. But he’s not here, and that says something to me.”

  “That he hates me?” Mary Jane ventured, without much conviction.

  “I don’t think that’s possible. I think it’s much more likely that he felt his being here would cause you pain. And if that’s the case, it makes me wonder just why that would be. Why would it be so difficult for you to see him?”

  Mary Jane said nothing, but just looked down at the floor. Then she let out a heavy sigh. “Mom?” she asked softly.

  “Yes, dear?” Madeline replied, the sou
l of patience.

  “At what point… did you know marrying dad was a mistake? How long did it take you to regret it?”

  “Oh, honey, I never regretted it.”

  Mary Jane took a step back and shook her head in disbelief. “Aw, jeez, Mom.”

  “I never did,” insisted Madeline.

  “Now who’s not being honest, huh? After the way he treated you… ?”

  Madeline moved toward her and took her firmly by the shoulders. “I regret how it turned out, yes. But that marriage gave me you, honey. Without your father, you wouldn’t be here. For all the grief I suffered at his hands… I couldn’t imagine the world without you in it. Heck, I don’t even think I’d care to try. Oh, now look, your mascara’s running.”

  The reason, of course, was that she was tearing up. Quickly her mother dabbed the tears away and then started repairing the makeup.

  There was an abrupt knock at the door and it swung open before they could say anything. And to their astonishment, Mary Jane’s father was standing in the doorway. He was wearing a suit that didn’t fit particularly well, and he pulled at the shirt collar.

  “They’re getting antsy out here,” he said.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah,” said Phil Watson guardedly.

  “You’re… you’re here.”

  “You invited me. You don’t want me here?”

  “No, I just… I didn’t think you’d… it’s…”

  “Phil, this might not be the best time,” Madeline said, trying to sound diplomatic.

  “Why? What’s the problem?”

  “There’s no problem,” Madeline assured him.

  He looked more closely at Mary Jane. “Then why has she been crying? What is it, cold feet? Or something more?”

  “Dad, you can’t do this,” Mary Jane told him, keeping her voice firm. “I know I invited you and everything, but this is… this is personal, and you can’t just jump in and go all Father Knows Best on me and think you can solve—”