Marvel's SPIDER-MAN

by David Liss

  “You know my history too well for me to go over it with you,” he began.

  “Sorry,” she snapped. “You don’t get to use your uncle as a free pass to tell me what to do. I get it, you want to protect everyone. It’s what drives you to do what you do, and that is a big part of what makes you special, but you have to know where to draw the line.”

  “We’re talking about one thing,” he said. “Wilson Fisk. I just want to draw a red line around him. Is that so much to ask?”

  “What if I start looking into some other crime boss?” she countered. “What if it were about these Blackridge guys? Would that be a red line?”

  “MJ,” he groaned. It was the best he had.

  “You go out and face danger every single day,” she said, “and I’ve had to learn to live with it.”

  “But I—”

  “You have abilities. I know you do, but you’re fighting people who have abilities, and some of them are more powerful than you. Does that stop you? You think I haven’t stayed up nights worrying you were going to be trampled or electrocuted or stung or flung or de-atomized.”

  “I don’t remember any de-atomizing—”

  She took his hand, cutting him off. “Peter, I love you, but I don’t love having this argument all the time. It’s draining me. You are going to have to learn to live with me making my own choices. This is what I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. I put it off because I know you don’t need any more drama, but this is a big deal to me. I can’t live the life I want to live if I feel like I’ve got you hovering over me, asking me to explain every choice I make. You are going to have to trust that I’m responsible enough to weigh risks, just as I’ve trusted you to do that.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  “So we’re never going to have this fight again, right?”

  “That,” he agreed, “is the goal.”

  “And you’ll stay out of my business?”

  “Except when you ask,” he said. Or if you really need me to interfere.

  * * *

  A week later, they sat in a restaurant on the Upper East Side. It was their last night with Harry, who was leaving for Europe the next afternoon. Peter had been looking forward to it for days, and he’d been praying that there would be no crisis that would make him late or turn him into a no-show.

  Inexplicably, the universe actually did him a solid, and the three of them were enjoying a night of good food, good wine, and good memories. Ideally Peter would have treated his friend, but economic realities being what they were, Harry insisted on picking up the tab.

  “Don’t fight me on this,” Harry said to him before they sat down. “You could be a millionaire a hundred times over if you weren’t so committed to doing the right thing. I get to pretend I’m a good guy by spending some money I’ll never miss.”

  Things were still a little tense with MJ. He’d promised to try to do better, to stop being such a worrier, but it wasn’t like she was pursuing a new hobby. She was asking for his support as she went down a road that could get her killed. Every time he thought he needed to be more supportive, he remembered what that meant—to look the other way while she crossed Wilson Fisk. How was he supposed to pull that off?

  He wanted to put all of it aside for the night, but it wasn’t easy. MJ was having a hard time, too.

  On top of all that, Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something Harry wasn’t telling them. The purpose of the trip was still vague—wanting to “find himself,” figure out his priorities, discover his passion. It seemed as if he could do that in New York, or with a bunch of quick trips to Europe. He didn’t see why Harry needed to relocate there.

  Of course, given that his father was Norman Osborn, he might need an ocean between the two of them to feel like he had breathing room. That would have sufficed as an explanation, he supposed, if there hadn’t been other hints. Peter had known Harry long enough to tell when his friend was holding something back. He had that feeling now.

  There were other ways in which Harry didn’t quite seem himself—a little more easily distracted or a little quicker to let his temper flare. Once, Peter thought he saw Harry’s hand trembling. It worried him, but he knew when to give Harry space. He just wished he didn’t have to give him that much space.

  “I’m exhausted,” Harry told them as they headed out of the restaurant. “I need to get some sleep before spending an entire day sitting and doing nothing on an airplane. You two should carry on, though.”

  “I wish I could,” MJ said. “I’ve got a deadline. After this, I’m brewing a pot of coffee and pulling an all-nighter.”

  They saw her into a cab, and then Peter began to walk Harry to his apartment.

  “Try and keep my dad in line while I’m gone,” Harry said. “He’ll make time to meet with you, so take advantage of that if he starts to do something stupid.”

  “He seems like he’s doing an okay job as mayor,” Peter said. “Maybe a little too corporate-friendly, but things seem to be working pretty well.”

  “We’ve fought about that,” Harry said. “I tried to get him to see things differently, but he’s always been a business guy. And once he gets an idea, he won’t let it go.”

  “You can be like that, too.”

  Harry laughed. “Exactly. And do you have any idea how hard it is to fight yourself?”

  The fight on the roof with the woman, Maya Lopez, came back to him. He had a pretty good idea.

  “So, any tips?” he asked. “On fighting yourself?”

  Harry looked at him like he was crazy, which, under the circumstances, wasn’t all that unreasonable.

  “Be someone else,” he said. “That’s the one thing they’ll never see coming.”

  They reached his apartment building and started to shake hands, then turned it into a hug. Harry didn’t know his secret, but after MJ and Aunt May, he was the only person who really knew him, who got him. Even though he couldn’t tell Harry about everything that was going on with him, having him around helped. Now Peter was going to be one step closer to being alone.

  Harry seemed to sense his disquiet. “Things seem kind of strained with you and MJ.”

  “I worry about her,” Peter said, “and she doesn’t like that I worry.”

  “If you hover over her,” Harry said, “you’ll lose her.”

  “If she gets herself killed, I’ll lose her worse.”

  “You can’t control how she lives her life,” Harry said, “but you can control how much you bug the crap out of her.”

  It was good advice. After Harry went upstairs, Peter stood on the street, looking up, feeling like one more piece of his life was disappearing.

  MANY blocks downtown, two men stood inside a darkened Fisk warehouse. No one else was there—that had been a condition of the meeting. Just the two of them. No assistants or bodyguards. No witnesses.

  “We’ll do it at one of my places,” Fisk said. “It’s harder for you to arrange things without being seen.”

  “And if someone happens to notice me going in there?” Norman Osborn asked.

  “Then it’s simply a consultation between the mayor of New York and one of its most prominent citizens. Nothing could be less scandalous.”

  A table had been placed under a hanging light. On it sat a bottle of wine and two glasses, but neither seemed in the mood to sit, let alone to drink. Fisk watched the shadows dance in the dim light. He was as good as his word. None of his people were present. He had no wish for them to hear what he had to say, and it wasn’t as though the mayor was a physical threat. If he needed to, he could break Osborn in half, stuff him in a crate, and drop him into the river—all in less time than Osborn would need to call a cab.

  No, the dangers Osborn posed were of a slower and more methodical nature. He was dangerous, but he also presented an opportunity. Fisk didn’t trust the mayor to honor a bargain, but he trusted Osborn’s greed and ambition. He trusted Osborn’s lust for power. Most people saw him as the brilliant entrepreneur
who had turned a little tech company into one of the world’s most ubiquitous brands. They saw the ambitious man who, having achieved incredible success and wealth, wanted to prove he could govern as well as he could invent and innovate.

  The jury was still out on how well Osborn was doing as mayor. The financial sector loved him because they saw him as good for business, but did that translate to being a good leader? He was getting heat from a lot of interests that didn’t benefit from Wall Street’s success. Guys like Martin Li were on the news every other day, talking about providing services for the homeless and implicitly attacking Osborn in the process.

  “Someone has to step up,” Li liked to say. “If the government won’t help the people, then the people have to help each other.”

  “You have to make Martin Li and his kind work for you,” Fisk said. “Make use of the private sector. It’s good for business and it’s good for the people.” He paused, then added, “I’m trying to give you a lifeline, Osborn.”

  “I don’t need a lifeline,” the mayor said. “Not from you or anyone else. I’m not drowning.”

  “You’re not exactly thriving, either. People with money love you, but everyone else is calling you the mayor of Wall Street. You can’t change who you are—that would be worse. Your base will turn on you, and the people hate a hypocrite. Instead, you have to convince them that your ways will help everyone.”

  “And embracing Wilson Fisk will do that?” Osborn coughed out a laugh.

  “Precisely.”

  “Sounds like a non-starter to me,” Osborn said. “The world hasn’t forgotten about your past troubles.”

  “The state had a chance to make its case against me,” Fisk said. “It had no case to make. Am I supposed to be punished for that? That’s not justice.”

  “We’re not talking about justice,” Osborn told him. “We’re talking about public relations.”

  Fisk smirked. “This isn’t some uptight Lutheran town in the Midwest, Norman. It’s New York City, and if there’s one thing New Yorkers like, it’s a comeback. They want to see a man who’s been down get back up again. They want to see a villain remake himself as a hero. If you can be part of that, then you become a hero, too.”

  Osborn kept his face expressionless. “I’ll consider your proposal.”

  “You are doing more than considering it, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Fisk said. “Tell me what it’s going to take to make this work.”

  Osborn sighed and shook his head. “Fair enough.” He handed Fisk an envelope. “There is a list of… requirements in there. Nothing that should be too painful.”

  Fisk tore it open, took out the paper, and scanned the contents in the dim light.

  “I have to hand it to you, Osborn, you’ve planned it precisely. If I shave off this much, it will hurt without the wounds being crippling.” He looked up and gave the mayor a curt nod. “But if this is what you want, I think we can do business.”

  “Just trying to do what’s best for the city, Wilson,” he said. “I have an opportunity to make some real changes. I could be hailed as the most successful mayor in generations, but I need to play hardball if I’m going to succeed.”

  “Not to mix metaphors,” Fisk said, “but are you sure you want to play hardball when you’re skating on such thin ice?”

  “We’re doing business here, Wilson. Is that kind of talk really necessary?”

  “I merely remind you of where you stand,” Fisk replied. He held up the documents. “As long as we’re discussing a carrot, I won’t need to show you the stick.”

  Osborn’s eyes narrowed. “You said we’re doing business.” His mouth became a thin line.

  “And I want to keep doing business just as amicably,” Fisk said. “What you ask for is reasonable for a man in your position. I have no objections when I deal with reasonable men. I only require that you remain reasonable.”

  “I’m glad to know you’re thinking so clearly on this.”

  “I always think clearly.”

  “Oh, really?” Osborn laughed. “What about this man who’s running around pretending to be Spider-Man? No, I don’t have any evidence, but I know how you think. What I want to know is how you found someone who can do exactly what Spider-Man can do.”

  “If I were behind it,” Fisk said, “I certainly wouldn’t discuss it with you.”

  “Still, I’m curious,” Osborn continued. “Are there others out there like him? Is there a whole race of Spider-Men waiting to be recruited? Or did you somehow create him? Is there a laboratory in the bowels of Fisk Tower where ordinary men are being—”

  “Enough!” Fisk barked, taking a step forward. “Don’t speak to me like I’m one of the lackeys you mock with your superior tone. I am Wilson Fisk!”

  “And I am the mayor of New York City,” Osborn replied, but he did so quietly, and with his eyes lowered.

  “If you want to stay that way, you will govern your tongue,” Fisk told him. The pounding in his skull began to soothe. His pulse stopped thrumming. He let his fists unclench. “It is human nature to resist the feeling of powerlessness. You can indulge in that fantasy when you play at being a politician. When you speak to me, however, you will remember who and what you are, or I will have you replaced with someone who understands where the city’s power truly lies. We have these negotiations because you are an intelligent man who might see things others have missed, not because you have any authority to assert.”

  Fisk continued to stare at him until Osborn looked away.

  “We’re done here,” Fisk said. He turned and strode out of the warehouse, leaving Osborn to find his own way in the dark.

  * * *

  BINGHAM crouched on a pile of crates watching the exchange, wishing he had popcorn to munch on. Or potato chips. He liked those too. It would be hard to eat in his suit, though. It got hot in there, but he liked feeling like he was cooking, slowly turning into his true self.

  He also liked watching these two men talk. It didn’t get more entertaining than this. He waited for a signal, a sign that he should jump in. If he needed to take care of business, he would do it, and it would be another high-profile Spider-Man crime. But Bingham knew it was unlikely he’d have to act. Those two were in the same boat, even if they didn’t want to admit it. They would stare and threaten and have pissing contests, but it was never going to be more than that because Fisk needed Osborn and Osborn needed Fisk. That’s how it was, and it would stay that way until one devoured the other.

  The fat man left first, and there was nothing for Bingham to do. Maybe swing around a little, web up some cops for fun, knock over some old ladies, and get his face on the news. He loved swinging, he loved using the web shooters, even though they exacted a heavy toll on his shoulders. He was sore for a long while after flying around the city. The web shooters they’d made for him had a much stronger kick than the ones the imposter used, and they were clunkier, too. It wasn’t fair. They’d told him that if his muscles and skeletal structure hadn’t been enhanced by the medicine, his shoulder would be dislocated every time he used the web shooters.

  The pain was worth it, though.

  Any pain was worth it, because he was Spider-Man—and greatness and suffering were part of the same thing, weren’t they? He thought so. Or maybe he’d heard it on TV, but either way it was true.

  And he loved being himself. He loved swinging through the city, hurting people, scaring them. The other day, while pretending to be the weak Spider-Man imposter, he’d considered pushing a baby stroller in front of a speeding truck. Babies were easily replaced. There’d be no real harm done, and Bingham knew he’d feel no more guilt than if he’d dropped a candy wrapper on the street. He’d held back, though, because he knew the grief he’d get from Fisk was more trouble than it was worth.

  The time would come, though, when no one would tell him what to do. Fisk thought he had control, but that was a joke. He controlled Fisk. He pulled Fisk’s strings. It was better for now that the fat man didn’
t know it, though.

  Let them think he was stupid. People had always underestimated him. They laughed at him back in Binghamton, and they laughed at him on the streets of New York, but they’d stopped laughing after he met the people from the laboratory.

  * * *

  THE nice lady he met on the street took him to a van where they gave him hot chocolate—the kind with the little marshmallows that melted while you poked them with a plastic stick. They gave him clean clothes to wear and a tuna sandwich that was unlike any tuna sandwich he’d ever had before. It was thick with creamy tuna salad and it had little black olives in it, which surprised him, but he liked them.

  “We’d like to take you someplace,” the lady told him. She was pretty, and he liked looking at her. “You’ll be warm all the time, and you’ll have plenty to eat and drink. There will be clean clothes and a bed.”

  People thought Bingham was stupid, but he wasn’t stupid. No one did nice stuff like this without wanting something in return. He understood that.

  “What will I have to do?”

  She smiled, appreciating how smart he was. She had funny glasses that were very long rectangles with bright green frames. He didn’t know how he felt about those.

  “We want to test some… medicines,” she explained. “They might make you healthier than you are right now, but I’ll tell you the truth—they might make you sick. But if you were to get sick, we’d take care of you.”

  Bingham could picture himself lying in bed, the pretty lady with the funny glasses taking his temperature or bringing him bowls of soup on a tray the way his mother had before she changed. His mother had given him medicine that made him feel better, and let him watch TV as much as he wanted. That didn’t seem so bad to him. He would be willing to do that, so he signed the papers that said he agreed to do what they asked, and the pretty lady told the man in front of the van to drive.

  It took a long time to get where they were going, and Bingham couldn’t tell much about it because the van had no windows. The van stopped, and they climbed out inside a garage that was probably underground. It was cold and his footsteps echoed. The pretty lady with the glasses walked him through some doors and handed him over to a man in a uniform who did not smile at all.