by David Liss
“It’s very kind of you, Mr. Osborn,” Peter said. This was the usual role, trying diplomatically to keep these two from each other’s throats. “But I first started working at the lab when I was in college. I’m going to see things through.”
“I get it,” Norman said. “Is Theodore Peyton still working there? He used to be one of Oscorp’s, you know. A strong head for numbers, but a bit difficult to work with.”
“I understand his need to keep the budget in line,” Peter said.
“Budget is less of an issue at Oscorp,” Norman continued. “But I won’t press the point. You don’t want a handout from your friend’s dad. You’ve always been a go-getter, Peter. I appreciate, even admire that you want to make your own way, but part of making your own way is letting the people you impress smooth things over for you.”
“He doesn’t want to work for Oscorp,” Harry said. “How many times do you have to put him on the spot before you get that?”
Norman laughed as if Harry had made a joke. “Point taken, gents.”
“So, how’s the mayoring going?” Peter asked.
“It’s less work but more frustration than running a company, I can tell you,” Osborn said. “Everyone wants something, but no one actually expects to give anything in exchange. It’s been an eye-opening experience.”
“I’ll bet,” Peter said, trying to keep conversation on this neutral footing. “So, Harry’s trip sounds pretty exciting.”
“Yes.” Norman dropped the smile. “Harry’s trip. I think the issue here is less what Harry is going to do on his trip, than what he’s going to do after it. It’s a mistake to see this trip as a suspension from real life, when it could be an opportunity to make plans for that life.”
“Well, this has been a great time, Peter.” Harry slapped his hand on the table and stood up. “Time for me to go.”
“Come on, Harry.” Norman shook his head theatrically. Peter could imagine him having done it in countless board meetings. “Don’t act like a child.”
“Seriously,” Harry said. “I’m leaving.” Without even waiting for a response, he was out the door before Peter could figure out what was going on.
“I am sorry about that,” Norman said. “He hasn’t been himself lately. Maybe you’ve noticed.”
“I guess,” Peter said. “I mean, he’s always been a little hot-tempered.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Norman said, “as long as you direct that heat toward the things that matter.” He looked at his watch. “Unlike my son, I really do need to be places, but you were going to tell me how things were going at the lab. You said something about a new breakthrough.”
“I’m pretty sure I never said that.” Peter would never share anything about research, especially with another scientist.
“No fooling you,” Norman said. “I appreciate your loyalty, but don’t forget that loyalties can change.”
“I should really go too,” Peter said.
“Thanks for keeping an eye on Harry,” the mayor told him as they rose.
“He’s my friend,” Peter responded. “I’m here to help him.”
“I know you’ve known each other a long time,” Norman Osborn said, meeting Peter’s gaze with an unexpected intensity. “But helping him is my job.”
* * *
IT was a late start at the lab, and Peter found Peyton in a good mood. At least Peter thought he might have been. He was never more animated than a statue, but his suit looked extra pressed and his bow tie was a little brighter than usual. That had to count for something.
“You are late as usual,” he said, “but at least you don’t appear to be excessively fatigued.” He then gave Peter a series of tests to run for the day.
“I’m trying,” Peter said. “It’s just, you know, life and all that.”
Peyton gave him a stern glance. “Yes, I have some familiarity with the concept of life. Now please proceed with the data I’ve provided.”
Peter got to work, running a group of computer model simulations, and by the time he was ready to begin the analysis, Anika had shown up to lend him a hand.
“So, did you get my message the other night?” she asked casually.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about not getting back to you,” he said. “I sort of got distracted.”
“It’s fine.” She began to twirl her black hair nervously. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Is it about the toilet not flushing properly?” he said hesitantly. “Because I had no idea that was a problem.”
She laughed and put her hands behind her back, and then clasped them in front of her, and then shoved them in the pockets of her jeans.
“I never saw the note on your desk to call the plumber,” she said. “But we’ll stick a pin in that conversation. I’ve been looking at some of the data you’ve been running, and your analysis is brilliant.”
“Thank you, undergraduate assistant.”
She gave him a playful smack. “I’m serious. Although I would never have worked the data the way you did, that doesn’t mean I can’t recognize how clever your analysis was. I mean, it’s fantastic work, and even Theodore recognizes that you’re really smart…”
“So why is he always giving me a hard time?”
She shrugged.
Peter felt a strange, almost unhinged, urge come over him—to confess to being Spider-Man. I can trust her! he thought out of the blue. The fact that this urge came packaged with a vision of him giggling uncontrollably was a sure sign that he probably ought to resist it.
There was no reason to start trusting new people, let alone someone who was almost a complete stranger, but he was so tired of lying—even in conversations that were supposed to be completely honest. How many times had he done that with Aunt May, with Harry, even with MJ—both before he told her about being Spider-Man, and even after? Sometimes it was better for her not to know just how much danger he’d been in, or how much the odds were stacked against him.
Would it really be so bad to trust someone new?
Not now, obviously, but she was supposed to be a technological whiz. Maybe she could help him with his suit. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone who had his back, instead of always being on his own? And knowing his secret wouldn’t really put her in danger, would it? Not unless someone else found out she knew.
It wouldn’t be like telling Harry or Aunt May—that would just relieve his guilt about lying to them. It would be selfish, because he would be doing it so they didn’t think he was a flake.
No, with Anika he would be building his support base. She was intelligent, energetic, optimistic, ridiculously pretty—no, that last one didn’t matter.
But the rest were real plusses.
The idea was nuts, and he knew it. He was having some issues with MJ—whom he loved, by the way. Throwing out that little PSA there. He was feeling vulnerable, and this was how normal people reacted in that kind of situation. He’d read about normal people, and he thought he had a pretty good understanding of how they worked. The tiny male brain sometimes saw an attractive woman as an escape, but flirting with Anika wouldn’t make his life any easier.
So, time to lie, he told himself.
“I’ve just been kind of distracted,” he said, hearing how lame the excuse was, even as the words left his mouth. It made him sound lazy, but he’d never been able to think of a way of deflecting the truth without telling a bigger and more complicated lie. “And I’ve never been the best at time management. I think Peyton is getting tired of taking the good with the bad.”
“In other words, you’re not going to tell me?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.
“What do you mean? I just did.”
“‘I’ve been kind of distracted,’ ” she said, mimicking his tone. “That’s not an answer. That’s a non-answer. Who’d buy something that lame?”
Pretty much everyone, he thought. Teachers who were indifferent or too busy to press, close friends and family who respected his privacy, people who
just couldn’t be bothered. Maybe they hadn’t been satisfied, but they’d accepted it.
“Talking about things can help,” Anika said. “But if you don’t want to talk about it with someone you don’t know all that well, then you should just say so.”
“No, that’s not it,” Peter said. “I mean, if there was a stranger I’d talk with, it would be you. You’d be just the right kind of stranger.” He was babbling now, and digging himself a hole.
She smirked. “I like to think so.”
“It’s nothing bad—like drugs or gambling or whatever—but I have a lot of responsibilities outside of work.” That sounded reasonable. “I have obligations I can’t walk away from, and sometimes it’s like I’m living two lives, I guess. I have to do these other things. I mean, I think I do. I’m not sure anyone else will if I won’t, and there are things I need to see through, but at the same time, I’m just so tired of not being able to give my full attention to the work here, which I love.”
He sat back in his chair and let out a long breath. This was as close as he’d come to being open and honest with anyone other than MJ for as long as he could remember. It felt good.
Anika sat across from him. “It feels good, doesn’t it?” she said, as if she was reading his thoughts. “Even if you didn’t tell me anything at all, really.”
“Exactly!”
“Would you like some advice from someone who’s lived fewer years and has less experience than you?”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
“Okay, so I’ve been where you are, when I first started at ESU,” she said. “I won’t go into the details, because we’re not there yet, but I was being pulled in two different directions. Your complexion suggests to me that neither of your parents are Indian, but let me tell you, when your mom and dad come from another country, and work incredibly hard their whole lives so their children will have opportunities they never had, they sort of expect you to get good grades.
“My older sister obliged,” she continued, “and they went through the roof when I didn’t. It’s perfectly reasonable, and I couldn’t tell them why I wasn’t getting good grades, just like I’m not telling you. So of course they didn’t buy my excuses.”
“So what happened?”
“What happened was I figured out what’s important to me. I took some time to decide what I want to do with my life—not what other people expect of me, but what I want. It turned out I really did want to go into the sciences, and I refocused my energy. I can only hope that when I apply to grad school, that B+ in ‘Intro to Medieval European History’ won’t sink me.”
“Yeah, it sounds like you bottomed out.”
“It was a crisis,” she said without missing a beat, “even if I managed to contain the worst of the damage.”
It wasn’t exactly a direct comparison, he thought—medieval history versus the Vulture—but it was still good advice. He’d been skirting around the issue for a long time, but hadn’t really confronted it. He’d been asking himself about the value of being Spider-Man, but he hadn’t asked himself if he wanted to be Spider-Man. He was going to have to confront this sooner or later—but not, he decided, until he saw this Fisk business through to the end.
“Well, my parents weren’t from another country,” he said, “but it was kind of complicated.” He told her about being raised by his aunt, and that led him to talking about Uncle Ben, about how he could have stopped a thief and didn’t step in, thinking it wasn’t his problem. The thief who killed his uncle.
He’d learned to tell the story without crying, but it was still hard to talk about, to remember. There were moments, he knew, that stuck with you forever. Some regrets would never go away.
“Every time I have to make a choice,” he said, “I feel the weight of making the right one—not just for the moment, not just for me, but for how my decisions will affect everyone. I’m terrified I’ll do something, or not do something, and the consequences will be terrible.”
Her eyes were wide.
“You can’t live that way,” she said. “You couldn’t foresee the consequences with that, that thief. What if he’d been stealing to pay for medicine for his dying child, and by stopping him you’d have condemned a child to death? You never know how things are going to play out, so you can only make the best choices based on the information you have available.”
“But I made the wrong choice,” he insisted. “On that day.”
“Stop it. You didn’t know you were making the wrong choice,” she said. “It’s not like letting a murderer or a terrorist run free. When something looks trivial, you can’t know it will turn out to be important.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” he said.
It was a crime. I should have stopped it…
“It’s common sense,” she said, giving him a frown. “If you worry over every decision, try to project every possible ramification, it must drive your friends crazy. Or your girlfriend,” she added. “If you have one.”
Anika was fishing now. While it seemed like a bad time to tell her about MJ, he knew it would be cruel not to. They had a connection, and in a different world who knows what might have happened with the two of them, but he wasn’t living in that world.
“Yeah, I do have a girlfriend,” he said, “and I think she does find me kind of difficult to be around sometimes.”
He couldn’t quite read her expression, but he thought it was disappointment. She went silent, and they didn’t talk for a few awkward moments.
She changed the subject, and they talked about some of their favorite places to eat in the city. Peter mentioned the sandwich place in Times Square, and she made fun of him, but in the end she agreed to try it. It was an awkward transition, but Peter was happy he’d talked to her.
It had been a lucky day when she’d showed up in the lab.
MR. Fisk always had his reasons.
Maya knew that, but this time she wasn’t certain he was right. Moreover, she was pretty sure he was wrong.
“He was in this building last night,” she said. “To steal, or to spy on us.”
The security detail had been useless. Fearful of the consequences, they had told her to go directly to the boss.
Mr. Fisk nodded, looking thoughtful. At least he gave her concerns due consideration.
“There is no harm that he can do us here,” he said, remarkably calm. “And there is nothing of consequence for him to find that is not securely stored inside a safe.”
“He might have overheard our conversation.”
“And what if he did? We said nothing specific. There was nothing he could use against us.”
“It’s a mistake not to take him more seriously,” she insisted.
“I take him very seriously,” he told her. His eyes were narrow, and his voice dropped a register. “That was why I deployed Bingham.”
Maya worked hard to control her expression. She couldn’t let him know she had gone to speak to Bingham. Maya had little experience lying to Mr. Fisk, and those few transgressions she had committed, when she was much younger, had left her feeling small and ungrateful. She owed everything to this man—but she still believed he was wrong.
“I’ve crossed swords with these costumed vigilantes before,” Fisk said. “They all thrive on attention, on feeling as though they are at the center of something important. If you push back, that only feeds the delusion.”
“Spider-Man is already a problem.”
“He is a nuisance,” Fisk said with a wave of his hand. “But if I were to attack him, then it would quickly escalate, perhaps beyond what we want.”
“You may be underestimating how much he—”
The slab of Mr. Fisk’s palm came down on the desk. Papers, pens, photographs flew like debris in the wake of a bomb blast.
“Enough,” he said. “You are very clever, Maya, but you still have much to learn. Unless Spider-Man directly assaults us in some way we cannot ignore, we shall not speak of him until after we have completed the project.�
� He pinned her with his gaze. “Is that understood?”
“Yes,” she said, rising to her feet. “Absolutely.” She ignored the field of debris that surrounded the desk. Once, when she was younger, she had scrambled to pick things up, but that had only made him angrier. He didn’t like attention called to his temper.
Without another word between them, she left the office. On the way out she spoke to Mr. Cisneros, the first-shift secretary.
“There was an accident in Mr. Fisk’s office.”
He nodded, springing from his chair. “I’ll tend to it right away.” Just then, a smartly dressed young woman entered the foyer.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Mary Jane Watson. I have an appointment with Mr. Fisk.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Cisneros replied. He looked conflicted.
“I’ll take care of this,” Maya told him. The longer Fisk sat with his items on the floor, the more he would brood. She turned to Miss Watson. “I’m Maya Lopez, Mr. Fisk’s special assistant. Mr. Fisk will be with you shortly.” She gestured. “Please have a seat. Can I offer you some coffee, or water?”
“No, thank you,” the woman said as she sat.
“May I ask what this is regarding?”
“I’m with the Daily Bugle,” she explained. “Working on a series about the low-income people who stand to benefit from mixed-unit apartment projects, and since Mr. Fisk is part of that movement…” She allowed herself to trail off, most likely thinking it was charming.
“Mr. Fisk is the movement,” Maya corrected, moving a step closer. “Others may be trying to ride on his coattails, but they offer fewer units of less quality, trying to benefit from the good press without making a real contribution to the city. The work of the Fisk Foundation is changing this city for the better. I hope you will include that in the story.”
“If it turns out to be true, I certainly will.”
Maya turned to leave. Then she stopped and turned back to face the reporter.
“In the past, reporters have come here claiming to be working on one kind of story, but they were working on something else—something designed to twist Mr. Fisk’s work so it appeared to be something dark and illegal.” She paused, then added, “You wouldn’t be doing that, would you, Miss Watson?”
