by David Liss
“IS the work boring you?” Theodore Peyton asked.
“I’m awake!” Peter jumped and sat up at his workstation, pushing away sleep. As he began to focus, he let the humiliation wash over him.
How much easier it would be, he thought, if he didn’t have to conceal his life as Spider-Man. All those times his Aunt May thought he was forgetful or unreliable or flighty—wouldn’t it be refreshing to tell her he hadn’t forgotten to run that errand, or meet her at the bus. No, he’d been saving lives! All those times Harry thought he didn’t take their friendship seriously. And now the lab administrator thought he had been out partying too late to get a good night’s sleep.
Even on a Sunday, Theodore Peyton was wearing a suit with a bow tie pulled tight enough for the edges to slice bread—maybe even saw through wood. He was thin and tall, and with his severely parted hair and round little eyeglasses, he looked like a nineteenth-century schoolteacher. Not a nice one, either. The kind of schoolteacher who liked to whack his students with a stick for not conjugating their Greek fast enough.
Peyton, like Peter, was a scientist—but he was also in charge of the lab’s finances, so it could never be predicted if he was going to be wearing a lab coat over his suit or sitting in a corner somewhere balancing numbers on a spreadsheet.
The lab’s director—the man who had been Peter’s mentor in science since his undergraduate days—was in charge of the real science, but Theodore ran the business end of things. He pinched the pennies, and made sure he wrung every last bit of work out of the underpaid employees. Peter put up with it because he loved the boss and he believed in the science, but there were times when he wasn’t sure if that was enough.
“I’m sure there are places you’d rather be on a sunny Sunday afternoon,” Peyton droned. “Science may not be sufficiently glamorous for you. That said, we don’t pay you to sleep here.”
It wasn’t as if Peter was getting paid by the hour, and he’d put in at least sixty hours in the past week. He’d come in because there was work to be done, and he was glad to do it—at least abstractly. He did agree with Peyton on one point, though. There were places he’d rather be.
The lab was like a larger, more scientific version of Peter’s apartment. There were workstations, mechanical equipment, computer monitors, tools, and prototypes in various stages of completion. They were everywhere. The place had a mad scientist vibe if ever there was one.
“Point made, Theodore,” Peter said. “I was just up late, but I’ll get back to work.”
“Trouble sleeping again?” Peyton asked, but there wasn’t a hint of kindness. Peter had been using that excuse for as long as he’d worked in the lab. Peyton wasn’t buying it now, if he ever had.
The thing was, Peter really didn’t mind working on a Sunday. New data had come in from their synthetic neural relay tests, and numbers had to be crunched. Peter loved the work. It was exciting, and it was important. The place was on the forefront of the science that would lead to sensitive, fully functional prosthetic limbs. They were doing things that no one had ever done before, things that would make a difference for millions of people. The applications for wounded veterans alone would be staggering.
Being Spider-Man was important, but this was different.
Peter had never asked for his amazing abilities. He’d never yearned to be a costumed crime-fighter. He’d always wanted to be a scientist, though. Sure, with great power there also came great responsibility, but wasn’t an aptitude for science a great power? Didn’t he have a responsibility to pursue his abilities here as vigorously as he did on the street?
He loved being Spider-Man—most of the time. In a way, Peter never felt more liberated than when he was in that suit. Lately, though, he’d begun to worry that being a web-slinger wasn’t just part of his life, but getting in the way of his life. He spent so much of his time fighting bad guys, and those bad guys always seemed to come back.
Of course, he’d saved a lot of lives but if he’d stayed home and watched television last night, Andy would still be alive. What about the people who suffered when nutcases like Electro or the Scorpion or the Shocker came gunning for him? Was Spider-Man a deterrent, or a magnet for the crazies? By being out there, was he making things worse?
“If you’re not up to the task,” Peyton said, bringing him back down to earth, “I could replace you with someone who is willing to dedicate their time to this important work.”
“There’s no need to dip into the endless pool of scientific slave labor,” Peter said. “Give me half an hour, and I’ll have the data ready.”
* * *
THIRTY minutes later, with the work done, Peter walked into Peyton’s office and found him reviewing computer models that represented artificial neural pathways.
“The results have been uploaded,” Peter told him.
Peyton nodded and then opened a new file on his computer. His slender fingers began flying across the keyboard as he located the data Peter had generated and integrated it with the model he was running. Peter watched as animated arms appeared on the screen, then attached themselves to animated stumps. Flowing lights—representing the transfer of data from the subject’s brain to the artificial limbs—began to flow down the arms and back again. A few more keystrokes, and the hands clenched and unclenched.
“You seem to have managed to get the job done,” Peyton said. “I hope your nap time wasn’t too severely inconvenienced.”
“The boss’s work is amazing,” Peter said. He hardly even heard Peyton’s snide comments anymore. “This is exciting stuff.”
“Yes,” Peyton agreed. “I have to admit, you contribute a great deal to the effort, Parker. Your mind is first-rate, you know. I have no complaints about your abilities. It’s your efforts I find wanting. You must remember that we are serving a higher cause here, and I’d hate to see sloppy work habits get in the way. You truly are your own worst enemy.”
Given the kinds of enemies he’d made over the years, Peter wished this were true. He’d rather face himself than the Rhino pretty much any day.
“Point taken, Ted.”
“My name is Theodore, as you well know, and your glib responses will not insulate you from the larger point. Anyone else would have been gone a long time ago, but the director likes you, and you add value when you make an honest effort.”
Peter had been so caught up in watching the computer models on the screen—and ignoring Peyton—that he hadn’t noticed that someone else had entered the lab. He wished, not for the first time, that his Spider-Sense would tingle for embarrassing situations as well as danger, because he felt pretty sure that this attractive young woman had heard him getting chewed out.
“Ah, excellent,” Peyton said when he spotted the woman. “Peter, this is the new undergraduate assistant, Anika Adhikari. She is, among other things, technologically competent, and she will provide assistance for our data analysis. Anika, this is Peter Parker, former undergraduate assistant, now an employee.”
“You make it sound so exciting,” Peter said.
“Hi,” she said, grinning noncommittally. Peyton, as usual, was oblivious to the awkwardness of the moment.
“Peter, please show Anika around,” he suggested. “Get her familiar with the lab and maybe have her start collating the test results from the models I just ran. That should help bring her up to speed. The sooner we can put her to productive use, the better.”
“Will do,” Peter said.
He was just going to have to pretend he didn’t notice how insanely pretty she was. Not that she was trying. Her long dark hair was tied in a loose ponytail. She wore old jeans and—in the category of things that definitely didn’t help—a faded Spider-Man T-shirt. No matter how rumpled she’d managed to make herself, it didn’t do much to conceal those enormous brown eyes, and a heart-shaped face that seemed to radiate kindness.
“Sorry I heard you get raked over the coals,” she told him as they walked away from the office. “I mean, I heard it, and you know I heard
it, so it’s best to get your embarrassment out in the open, right?”
“And you’re in the sciences, you say?” Peter countered.
She laughed. “You got me. I just hate awkward situations. I know the project’s lead scientist thinks highly of you, but that guy…”
“Theodore Peyton,” Peter said, “but more like ‘Pain-ton.’ Am I right?”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Hey, I’m warming up here,” he replied. “He’s actually not a terrible guy, but he lives to balance budgets and squeeze every last drop out of our resources. Sometimes I want to strangle him, but the fact is we’d have a hard time keeping the lights on without him.”
“And he thinks you’re a slacker,” she said with an easy grin. “Got it. Now let’s see the cool stuff.”
“Cool stuff it is,” Peter agreed as he began to show her around the lab. “It’s quiet today, being Sunday and all, but more often than not a lot of the action happens at nights and on the weekends. I’ll give you my number, in case you need to reach me then. The boss pretty much never goes home, never sleeps, and never stops working. He’s relentless, which is great and scary and intimidating. If you’re here, it’s because you’re super smart, but when he starts talking, you’re going to feel like he made a mistake and you’re out of your league. Resist this feeling. It’s a rite of passage. Besides, unlike Peyton, he’s really nice, and he doesn’t do it to make you feel small.”
“Believe me, I’m ready to be humbled,” she said. “I’ve read his papers on theoretical electroencephalography. I still can’t believe I got the internship.”
“Where do you go to school?”
“Empire State University,” she said.
“My alma mater,” Peter told her. “Cool T-shirt, by the way.”
“I’m wearing it ironically,” she said. “Scientists are the real super heroes.”
“They stand among them, yes,” Peter replied. “Anyhow, that’s the kitchen in there. Don’t eat the frozen granola bars. Peyton loves them for some reason, and he always knows exactly how many are supposed to be there.”
“Not much of a chance, but thanks for the heads-up.”
Once they’d finished the tour of the lab, Peter sat her down at a workstation, set her up with a login and a password, and showed her the files on which she was going to work.
“We’ll start with something basic,” he said. “Nothing you do today is going to challenge you, but it’ll help get you familiar with the terms of the work, which will make it easier for you to dive into the good stuff. Keep that in mind when you’re thinking about all the better things you could be doing with a Sunday afternoon.”
“If I weren’t here, I’d be studying,” she said. “That’s life in the city.” She paused for an awkward moment. “How about you? Do anything fun last night? Hot date?”
This was the time to mention MJ. That would be the right thing, but it would also be a little awkward because they both knew she was fishing, and he didn’t want to shut her down.
“Just hung out with a friend.”
There’d be plenty of time to tell her his story.
Later.
MJ LIKED how quickly things moved in journalism. It suited her.
She’d spent most of Sunday writing and rewriting and rewriting some more, and early Sunday evening she’d sent her piece to Robbie Robertson at the Bugle. His secretary called Monday morning to say Mr. Robertson wanted to meet with her that afternoon.
Here it was, 2:05—less than twenty-four hours after submitting—and she was standing outside the editor-in-chief’s office.
“He’s running a little behind,” the secretary told her, “but not as behind as usual, which means he’s running ahead. So you’re in luck. It should only be a few more minutes.”
MJ didn’t mind. If half an hour later she was still sitting here, politely sipping burned and cold coffee from a chipped Styrofoam cup, she might mind then, but not yet. For the moment she was soaking in the journalistic energy all around her. The phones ringing, the voices shouting, the endless clacking of fingers on keyboards.
A woman ran through the newsroom clutching a sheaf of papers. It was like something from a movie, and she knew that nothing extraordinary was happening at that moment. There were no political upheavals, no superhuman battles in Times Square, no scandals bursting wide open. Just another day at the races, and soon—maybe tomorrow—she’d be part of it.
She had to think so. Mr. Robertson wasn’t going to call her in, waste her time and his, just to let her know that she hadn’t done well enough. He was going to offer her a job. That had to be it. She was going to be a writer for one of the most important papers in New York City.
MJ had written for her high-school paper, and then for the paper at ESU, where she’d studied journalism. Yet somehow, after graduation she hadn’t immediately tried to land a job. Her life had been crazy, in large part because she’d been Peter’s girlfriend. That would sound pathetic for any other woman, but Peter needed help. He needed a full-time manager, if she was going to be honest, and she’d tried to step in and fill that role because he was off saving the city on an almost weekly basis.
Having a front-row seat to Spider-Man’s heroics had been thrilling at first. It was thrilling now, but there was more she wanted to do—things she wanted to accomplish on her own.
Through it all she’d kept writing—mostly freelance pieces for the city’s numerous weeklies, and some investigative long-form pieces she’d placed in some high-profile online publications. That had been a step toward a larger goal. Online journalism could be a solitary existence, and she wanted the buzz of the newsroom, that coiled feeling of something uncontainable about to break free. She wanted to be on the front lines of what mattered, digging up the truth.
Truth be told, it was hard to be around someone like Peter—who made a difference every day—and not want to make a difference yourself.
“You’re MJ, right?”
She looked up to find a familiar-looking woman grinning at her. The woman had dark hair, a serious expression, and she was holding her hand out.
“Let me take that for you,” she said, looking at the coffee cup. “Everyone’s too busy around here to notice that they’re giving you coffee from Friday. I hope you didn’t drink too much.”
MJ surrendered the cup, trying to fight the sour feeling in her stomach.
“Not as much as I might have,” she said, standing, “but more than I should have. Have we met…?”
“Betty Brant,” she said with an easy smile. “I remember you from when Peter Parker used to take photos for us. You’re his wife, right?”
Her hands now free of the cold coffee, MJ held them up as if to ward something off.
“Don’t rush it,” she said wryly. “Girlfriend.”
“Robbie passed your piece over to me.” Brant shifted the conversation without missing a beat. “He was that impressed. I’m an editor at the city desk, so I took a look at it.” She paused, then added, “I have to say, he was right.”
“Wow,” MJ replied. “Thank you.”
Brant nodded. “He’s going to offer you a job. I read some of your work in Breakthrough and Wrecker, so I know features isn’t where you want to spend the rest of your life. This job is a foot in the door, so don’t sweat it. I started out answering phones and typing memos, so believe me when I say hard work and a passion for news will get you noticed.”
MJ felt herself blushing. After spending so much time in Peter’s shadow, it was great to be noticed for being herself.
“It’s very nice of you to say all that.”
Betty laughed. “I’m being selfish, though. Though things have improved a lot since I started, journalism is still kind of an old boys’ club. Our previous editor, J. Jonah Jameson, didn’t consider change a priority. Mr. Robertson’s a whole lot better, but I still want to stack the decks with as many badass ladies as possible.” She raised the coffee cup in salute, and then dropped it into a t
rash can. “You need anything, let me know.”
As she turned to leave, Robertson’s secretary motioned MJ over.
* * *
“I like this a great deal,” Robbie Robertson said. He was in his early forties, graying at the fringes, glasses sliding down his nose. He had the look of a man who had seen it all, like he came from journalism central casting. Despite that, there was a friendly crinkle at the corners of his eyes.
He had printed out her piece, a clear sign that he’d come of age before going paperless became second nature. Notes and underlines and comments, all in red pen, filled the margins and spaces. She didn’t mind being edited—she liked being edited by someone with a good eye—but there was close to being more note than text on the page.
“You’re a talented writer,” he said, “though there are some passages that feel forced, like you’re gunning for a Pulitzer. Nothing wrong with swinging for the fences, but you still need to keep things crisp and clean. Let the story win the prizes, and not the flowery language.”
“Of course,” she began. “I still have a lot to learn…”
He waved her comment away. “Yes, you do,” he agreed. “So do I. I’ve been in this business a long time, and I’d never think of printing a word that hadn’t been slapped around by a smart editor with a bug up his ass. Or hers. If you don’t like to be told you can do it better, the Bugle is the wrong place for you.”
“I understand—”
“The job is for a features writer,” he said. “You’ll be running down specific assignments, but there will be time for you to pursue your own leads. Features leads, Miss Watson. I recognize an opening move when I see one.” He gave her a meaningful look. “I’ve read your online pieces. You want to go after Fisk, don’t you?”
“There’s an angle,” she said. “I’m sure of—”
“Look, I’ve got a whole building full of people who want to go after Fisk,” Robertson said. “And they’ve put in their time, built their credibility. As much as I need hard news, we also need to fill pages with exercise fads and organic farmers’ markets and the latest trends in SAT prep. That’s the job I’m offering. It’s not chasing down the Kingpin of Crime.” He rose from his seat. “That’s someone else’s job, and if you’re doing someone else’s job, you won’t be doing what we hired you to do.” That look again. “Are we perfectly clear on that?”
