by David Liss
Not yet. He was waiting for the right time.
One day the director came into his room. There were four guards with him, and they all had guns pointed at Bingham. He didn’t mind the guards and the guns. They wouldn’t shoot him unless he did something, though now he looked at them and wondered if he could get the guns away from them without being hurt. In his head he saw how he could do it. How they wouldn’t be able to stop him, but Bingham didn’t do it because he was afraid the director might get mad at him. What if they stopped giving him his medicine? That frightened him the most.
“The boss is very disappointed with you,” the director said.
This upset Bingham. He felt panic, and couldn’t figure out what he had done wrong. Maybe he should take the guns away from the guards, before they did something to him. But Bingham decided he would listen a little more to what the director was saying. It was the sort of thing he could understand now that he had never understood before.
“What did I do?”
“It’s not your fault, Michael,” the director said, “but the medicine doesn’t work on you the way the boss wanted it to. He wanted it to cure a disease.”
“Do I have a disease?” This was alarming news. Bingham had never felt healthier.
“No, you don’t, but from the way your body responds to the medicine, we can tell if it would cure this disease. The boss had hoped your body would react one way, but it reacted another way instead.”
“It made me able to do things,” Bingham said.
“Yes, it did,” the director agreed. “Let me ask you a question, Michael. Do you know who Spider-Man is?”
Bingham thought about that night on the street. He’d needed help, but Spider-Man had ignored him. He’d wondered about that for a long time, and he’d decided that Spider-Man wasn’t real. He was like one of those stories about old gods and heroes—but now Bingham could do so many of the things that Spider-Man was supposed to be able to do. There was really only one conclusion he could draw.
He hadn’t seen a real person that night.
He’d seen his own future.
“I’m Spider-Man,” Bingham said.
The director said nothing for a very long time. He looked at Bingham and blinked a great deal, a sure sign he was trying to figure something out. Bingham noticed that sort of thing now.
“I think the boss will be happy to hear that,” he said at last.
After that, they began giving him a lot more of the medicine, and they began his training in a very different way.
THERE was a segment on the news about Fisk, and Peter picked up the remote to turn it off, but he couldn’t will his thumb to do the work.
Every day seemed like the one before it. The weeks since the events at the museum—since Watanabe ended their partnership, since MJ broke up with him—had passed in a fog. Peter still went out as Spider-Man. He even faced both the Scorpion and Electro again, this time sending them to the Raft. The city still needed protecting, after all, even if many of the people he saved were afraid of him. He stayed away from Fisk because Watanabe asked him to. It would make things worse, she said, but he didn’t know how they could be any worse.
Through it all he remembered Anika. Anger flared up, but now it was mixed with despair and a sense of helplessness. Her death would remain pointless. Nothing could change that.
He watched as a reporter hovered outside Fisk Tower.
“Mayor Osborn will announce the new commissioner of finance at the gala,” the reporter said, “and there’s been a great deal of speculation that his choice will be Wilson Fisk. Once a controversial figure, the real estate giant has reinvented himself as a new kind of businessman, beloved by both the wealthy and ordinary citizens. A recent surge in municipal bonds serves to suggest that Wall Street favors the appointment.”
As the reporter talked, Fisk emerged behind him, shadowed by Maya Lopez. Reporters pushed forward and shouted questions as the two made their way to a limousine.
“I’m not looking to become commissioner of finance,” Fisk said, “and I have no expectation that Mayor Osborn will ask. However, I stand ready to serve this city which I love, if and when I am called upon.”
The segment ended, and Peter managed to turn off the TV. There was a knock at the door, which he assumed was his pizza, but when he opened it he found MJ standing there. She wore faded jeans and a white T-shirt under her brown leather jacket. Her hair was a little windblown.
She looked fantastic.
Peter didn’t say anything because he didn’t know what to say. It had been weeks since he’d seen her. He thought about her every day, thought about visiting her every time he was returning from a patrol. She was the one person with whom he could discuss his dual life, but he didn’t want to impose on her. She’d asked for her space, and he was going to give it to her.
“Hello,” MJ said. “I think that’s the traditional greeting.”
“Uh, sorry,” he said, moving aside to let her in. “Hello. I was just expecting a pizza.”
“I get that a lot.” She edged past him and surveyed his apartment, which looked as if the authorities had come in and ransacked his usual mess. “You were never much good at housekeeping, but this is a new low.”
“Saturday was a new low,” he said. “I’ve cleaned up since then. This is a new medium.” She looked up, and they locked eyes. “MJ, what are you doing here?”
“I came to see you because you’re depressed.” She lifted a tower of dirty dishes from a chair, setting them gently on the floor. She examined the seat, and then sat.
“How would you know that?”
“Because I know you,” she said. “Peter, we’ve been friends a lot longer than we were a couple, and I’m the only person you can talk to about the different parts of your life. Just because we’re not going out doesn’t mean we can’t talk.”
He folded his arms. “You said you wanted space.”
“I’m pretty sure I never—”
There was another knock at the door. MJ beat him to it. She paid for the pizza, and then searched for a reasonable place to put it down. Finally she cleared some real estate on the kitchen counter.
“Look, if you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll go,” she said. “Just as soon as I finish my share of the pizza. Are there any clean plates?”
“I’ve got some paper towels.”
“I guess that’s something.”
There was no point fighting it. Besides, he was glad to see her. MJ really did understand him better than anyone else, and she was right that he needed someone with whom he could talk. Once they both had paper towels and pizza, Peter quickly ate a slice, which gave him the energy to start a conversation.
“How are things at the lab?” MJ asked.
“Wouldn’t know,” Peter said. “I got fired.”
“Oh, Peter…” she began.
He realized he was being unfair, playing for sympathy. “You know I never got along with Peyton. I’m going to talk to our boss about getting the job back, but I don’t have the energy for that right now.”
“Because you’re busy sitting around a messy apartment?”
He shook his head. “I just don’t know what to do. Maybe I don’t have any options, and have to accept doing nothing. If Osborn offers Fisk that position, then he really will be impossible to stop. He’ll have power and leverage and access, and the police won’t be able to go anywhere near him.
“There doesn’t seem to be any way to stop it from happening,” he continued. “I could go to the gala and create some chaos, but we all saw how well that worked at the museum. At best I could prevent the announcement from happening that night. In the long run, it really wouldn’t make a difference.”
“So you’re giving up?”
“You have a better idea?”
“I’ve got no ideas at all,” she said, “but this pity party you’re throwing yourself isn’t doing anyone any good.”
“Why shouldn’t I feel bad?” he protested. “I’ve been tryi
ng to stop Fisk for years. He kills people. He’s killed someone I knew, and not only have I failed, I’ve played into his hands. Now I’m out of options. I can’t web this problem away.”
“You’re not out of options,” she said, taking a bite. “Just ideas—so get some new ones. The Peter Parker I know wouldn’t give up. You can’t solve this with webs, then solve it with brains. Use your compassion. Peter, sometimes you care too much about other people. It can be a problem. It became a problem for us, but it’s also one of the things that makes you great. Somewhere out there is an answer that will lead you to a third way. Maybe it’s a person, maybe it isn’t. You just have to figure it out, and follow your heart.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he snapped.
MJ wiped her fingers on the paper towel, and then set it down on the pizza box.
“That’s right,” she said calmly. “It’s easy for me to say, and it’s hard for you to do, so maybe you should get started.” She stood up. “Right now you’re busy telling yourself why you can’t stop him. When you decide to turn that around, let me know.” She left without waiting for an answer.
Peter sat there with a slice of pizza drooping in his hand. He considered kicking over some furniture, but he decided that would be unseemly. Instead, he thought maybe he should clean up his apartment, and began by moving some dirty dishes to the sink. The actual washing was a project better left for another day. Then he dropped down onto his sofa and decided he was angry.
Being angry wasn’t proof that she was wrong, and that bugged the hell out of him. Annoyingly, it might be proof that she was right. He was giving up. But he didn’t see how his compassion was going to stop a monster like Fisk. It had been a pep talk, but she was right. He couldn’t allow Fisk to win.
He had to try, to really try. He needed a way to get to Fisk—to stop him—that didn’t involve a direct confrontation. That might mean going through someone else, but who? Watanabe was out…
Damn it, she’s right, he thought. For the first time in weeks he felt himself smiling. MJ had just outsmarted him, and when Mary Jane did her thing it was a delight to behold. He was also smiling because he had an inkling of an idea.
* * *
THE next morning he showed up unannounced at the Daily Bugle. To make up for the intrusion, and for being a jerk the night before, he brought her a latte and a muffin, which he set down on her desk.
“Maya Lopez.” He pulled up a chair.
MJ smiled. “Go on.”
“She hates me. She loves Fisk, but he has to be lying to her. She thinks I killed her father. If I can convince her that she’s wrong, maybe I can get her to help me.”
“Let me get my file,” MJ said.
* * *
WHEN she saw it, Maya thought her heart might simply stop.
She emerged from her bathroom after showering, and found the note attached to her wall. No, webbed to her wall.
We have unfinished business. Meet me on the roof. Bring an open mind. but you can leave the spear at home. Please.
Spider-Man. Why was he doing this? Did he want to fight her? Did he fear what she knew? Did he think she was a threat to him, that she might attack him again when he wasn’t ready? Perhaps he wanted to confront her at the time and place of his own choosing.
No, that made no sense. Spider-Man was a coward, a bully who hid behind a mask and pretended to be a hero. If he wanted to stop her, he would attack unannounced. He would strike her down the way he had struck down her father.
It had to be a trap of some kind. She ought to ignore the note. There was no reason why she should play by his rules. Just walk away, go about her business. Let him wait for her and understand that she wasn’t a puppet for him to manipulate.
But she couldn’t let it go. She couldn’t ignore him. He had challenged her, and she had to answer.
Maya reached for her makeup.
* * *
ECHO stepped out onto the roof, prepared for him to swing down and attempt to catch her in his webs. She was prepared for him to be hiding, waiting to ambush her from some carefully chosen spot. She was even prepared for him not to be there. It might be a mind game, and when she came out onto the roof, she might find nothing but the wind and her own rage.
She hadn’t left her spear at home.
Maya had always imagined that her final confrontation with him would take place somewhere dark, maybe with fog, certainly with jittery, uncertain lighting. Here he was, though, in the bright light of a cloudless morning. As she strode out in her stage makeup, holding her spear, she saw him on the other side of the roof, sitting cross-legged, leafing through a file.
“You dare to mock me?” she asked. “Are you amusing yourself with my anger?” She hoped it sounded as imposing to him as it did in her head.
He looked up and folded the bottom of his mask up, so she could see his lips.
He knows…
“This is not mockery. This is me trying to look non-threatening. I swear, Maya.”
“Call me Echo,” she said.
He knew she was deaf, and he’d exposed part of his face. It meant nothing. Even with her perfect memory, she doubted she could identify him from just a mouth, but that wasn’t the point. Masks and costumes and the handprint—these were all forms of armor. He was exposing himself, making himself weak. His suit was part of his power, just as much as his webs and his abilities. If he wished to weaken himself, she would show him strength.
She charged.
Seeming to take his time, as if he was unafraid, he rose slowly. He placed the file on the ground and shot a small strand of web to keep it in place. He then turned to face her.
“I do not want to fight you,” he said. “I want to talk.”
Maya thrust her spear at him, but he sidestepped it easily. She began to feel a current of doubt course through her. She knew how to fight him when he was behaving like himself, when he was fighting back, but he was behaving strangely. Echo didn’t know how to counter that.
Yet she needed to try. She ran toward him and jabbed again. This time she anticipated his dodge. She’d seen it once, and she knew it was coming. Maya raised the spear, and his legs collided with the shaft, throwing him off balance.
Spider-Man tumbled and landed on the roof, but he bounced back quickly and faced her. She braced herself, but he didn’t charge. He didn’t shoot his webs. Twenty feet away, he stood with his hands up.
“This is the part where we talk.”
“You killed my father,” she said. “Stop playing games and fight me.”
“I am not playing a game,” he said. “Please just listen.”
It had to be a ploy. A trap. If she knew what he intended, she could beat him. In her mind she reviewed everything since she’d set foot on the roof. Where had he started? Where had he moved? Was he trying to maneuver her into a specific position? Nothing added up. He was acting like… like he really did want to talk to her. If that’s what he wanted, though, it was the last thing he would get.
She charged forward again, moving as though she planned to jab at him, but this time she tossed the spear, a bullet to his chest.
His mouth fell open in surprise. He dropped down to his back as the spear sailed over his head and then shot out a web, catching it before it could go over the side of the roof. While leaping to his feet, moving himself out of her way, he yanked the spear back to him. He caught it by the shaft, set it down gently, and stepped away from it.
“You can have it back,” he said, “if you promise to play nice.”
He took a few steps back.
“You think you can belittle me,” she snarled. It made her furious that he would toy with her this way. Yet he stood with his hands up, palms forward. He shifted slightly, so she’d be able to read his lips.
“I am not belittling you or playing games. I am trying to talk to you. I understand your rage. I know what it is to lose people, but I didn’t kill your father, Maya. You have been told that I did, but it is not true.”
“You’re a liar,” she said, and she swung at him, but he was already gone, already in the air. He landed and faced her again.
“Not lying. I did not kill him, but I know who did. I have proof—in the file.”
“You’re trying to trick me.” She scooped up the spear and jabbed at him. “To put me off my guard.”
“Why would I do that?”
Why would he do that? It was a good question. What did he have to gain by lying? She wished she could see his eyes. She could often tell lying from what people did with their eyes, but he wore that mask. Seeing his mouth wasn’t enough. She thrust the spear forward again.
“If I wanted to hurt you,” he said, stepping out of the way, “why would I come up here to talk to you. I know where you live. I can follow just about anyone, without any difficulty. Ambushing someone is easy. Trying to talk to them while they try to impale you is a little harder.”
She took a step back and braced herself, raised her spear as if to ward off an attack. It never came.
“Did you ever review the police file?” He took a step back. His shoulders looked relaxed, as if he knew she was softening. “Did you ever look at the evidence?”
“Of course I did.” She jabbed at him again, pointlessly. He was making a fool of her, and she was letting him pull her strings. So she stopped and placed the butt of the spear on the ground, watching him, ready to let him say what he had come to say. She would wait for her moment, though. She would be ready to strike.
“If you had reviewed the file, then you would know that I could not have killed him.”
“The file says no one else could have killed him.”
His mouth twisted. “Fisk got you the file, I suppose.”
