![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficI know this kinda "pays homage" to a classic Spidey moment, but since every Spider-Man writer since Lee has done the same homage, I don't mind too much.
”…Kingsley?” Peter asked hopefully.
”You wish.”
His helmet slid open to reveal Harry. Without make-up, he was even more terrifying. His flat, psychotic stare didn’t seem to line up with his maniacal grin, like two faces had been folded together.
Peter could believe it. He just didn’t want to. How could he have been so blind to let Harry slip away like this… and how could Harry do this now, with Mary-Jane in danger?
”I saw you and the Hobgoblin…”
”You saw the Hobgoblin’s armor on a mannequin. I piloted the glider by remote control. A trick to throw you off the trail, just like Menken and Ock! And I don’t think Kingsley will offer a very spirited defense for himself…”
There were a million other questions Peter could’ve asked, but all that mattered was one: “Why?”
”Why? Oh, I don't know. Let me think about it for a minute. Hmm… maybe because you killed my father. Maybe because you stole Mary-Jane from me. Maybe because you pretended to be my friend!“
“I am your friend,” Peter said quietly.
“Not anymore. Not since I became my father’s son.”
The weight shifted, driving Peter to one knee. He cried out in pain before desperately finding his voice once more. “Your father didn't want this to happen to you. He didn't want you to know the evil he was capable of doing, that’s why I didn’t tell you the truth.”
”No more lies, friend.”
Revenant, Harry took out a pumpkin bomb like a birthday cake, lit it, and set it down at Peter’s feet. “Not the fate I had in mind for you, but I figure dying with full knowledge of what Octavius is capable of…” Harry leaned forward, so close that Peter felt his five o’clock shadow sandpaper his cheek. “And that there’s no one to save MJ from here… well, it does have a certain ring to it.” He kissed Peter’s cheek. “Goodbye, brother.”
With a slowly growing smile, he backed up, then jetted away with insane laughter rising above the roar of his jet engine. He and his glider disappeared out the hole Octavius had made.
Peter shoved the burning memory of Harry’s face to the back of his mind and focused on the present. With a tremendous amount of effort, he lifted the rubble up higher and higher. The fuse burned down, no longer sparking but mournfully spitting motes of flame like a dying fire. Peter let go of the rubble and kicked the bomb away. It went off. Ten feet away.
The shockwave seemed to tear through Peter, setting fire to every old wound and fresh bruise in his body. He hit the wall abruptly, darkness spotting his vision.
Boulder-sized chunks of plaster fell on Peter, knocking him down and burying him. He shouldered the burden, tried to crawl out. An ear-splitting shriek alerted him to a metal air duct tearing free from the ceiling. It toppled toward him like an avalanche.
Peter lifted his hands up and shot webbing at it, trying to slow it down. The webs snapped as soon as they formed. The air duct landed, so hard it crashed Peter through the floor. In the crawlspace, surrounded by broken floorboard and pinned down by the collapsed ceiling, he sobbed in agony. It was only then that he noticed the pumpkin bomb had set his costume on fire in places. He patted them out, breathlessly gagging on pain.
“Okay… okay… okay… okay…” he repeated like a mantra, trying to clear his head of the pain. His legs were there, he just couldn’t see them. They weren’t gone, he wouldn’t be spending his life in a wheelchair, he wouldn’t die. He just had to get free. Just an inch…
He reached up and dug his fingers into the rubble. He was able to move some of the smaller pieces, but the air duct was implacable, a thousand tons, a million. He couldn’t even budge it. He collapsed, exhausted.
No use… Just gotta… rest for a while…
He looked at his mask. It seemed to stare at him, his face reflected in the huge eye lenses. His face, sweaty and bruised and old far too soon, with eyes that should’ve been bright instead of haunted. He was a young man in love. What use did he have for ghosts?
“What?” he asked the mask. “I did the best I could. I fought the good fight. What more can I do?” He thought it over and it sounded good to voice his conclusions. “Someone will come. They’ll dig me out. They’ll take care of Otto and Harry… before it’s too late…”
He wiped at his face, wiped away the tears of pain and the sweat and the faintest trace of lipstick left from Mary-Jane’s kiss. Don’t let that be the last one I give you.
He shook his head. “Stop kidding yourself, Parker. If I don’t get free, Octavius will kill Mary-Jane… and it’ll be my fault. Just like what happened to Uncle Ben.”
Under the mask’s approving gaze, he set his hands against the floor and pushed. As hard as he could, as long as he could. When he faltered and fell, Peter took a deep breath and started again.
I can’t let it happen a second time… I won’t!
The rubble moved up a few inches, rivulets of it bleeding down to jangle around Peter’s head and fall to the ground. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He stuck a leg out and knelt on it, continuing to build steam.
Anyone can win a fight when the odds are easy. It’s when there seems to be no chance at all… that’s when it counts!
His leg straightened. His arms burned. Sweat stung his eyes. His breath came in deep gulps, tasting of decay, rot. The rubble had been raised several feet, but he didn’t dare look to see how much more it would take. He just concentrated on getting his other leg out, standing on it.. And with one last, tremendous act of will he threw the rubble away. It shattered on the floor, a crumpled, dead dragon.
Bruised and battered, but every inch of him electrified nonetheless, Peter picked up his mask, dusted it off, and pulled it on.
Spider-Man was back.
***
The guests had run straight into the arms of the police and press. It was pandemonium. George shook his head as a thousand conflicting stories hit the witness statements and airwaves. It would be a mess sorting this all out. His mess.
“What’s taking so long?” he demanded of a fire marshal.
”The entire upper floors are locked down. We can’t get up there.”
George looked up at the skyscraper, and the smoke emanating from its top floor. “They say Spider-Man is up there… but no one saw him left.
”You think he’s dead?” the fire marshal asked.
”…no one can win them all,” George answered at long last.
The sound of cracking glass was there only warning. A red and blue form, trailing rubble and smoke, dropped, shot out a webline, and swung triumphantly. George watched Spider-Man disappear into the distance.
”Go get ‘em Spidey.”
”…Kingsley?” Peter asked hopefully.
”You wish.”
His helmet slid open to reveal Harry. Without make-up, he was even more terrifying. His flat, psychotic stare didn’t seem to line up with his maniacal grin, like two faces had been folded together.
Peter could believe it. He just didn’t want to. How could he have been so blind to let Harry slip away like this… and how could Harry do this now, with Mary-Jane in danger?
”I saw you and the Hobgoblin…”
”You saw the Hobgoblin’s armor on a mannequin. I piloted the glider by remote control. A trick to throw you off the trail, just like Menken and Ock! And I don’t think Kingsley will offer a very spirited defense for himself…”
There were a million other questions Peter could’ve asked, but all that mattered was one: “Why?”
”Why? Oh, I don't know. Let me think about it for a minute. Hmm… maybe because you killed my father. Maybe because you stole Mary-Jane from me. Maybe because you pretended to be my friend!“
“I am your friend,” Peter said quietly.
“Not anymore. Not since I became my father’s son.”
The weight shifted, driving Peter to one knee. He cried out in pain before desperately finding his voice once more. “Your father didn't want this to happen to you. He didn't want you to know the evil he was capable of doing, that’s why I didn’t tell you the truth.”
”No more lies, friend.”
Revenant, Harry took out a pumpkin bomb like a birthday cake, lit it, and set it down at Peter’s feet. “Not the fate I had in mind for you, but I figure dying with full knowledge of what Octavius is capable of…” Harry leaned forward, so close that Peter felt his five o’clock shadow sandpaper his cheek. “And that there’s no one to save MJ from here… well, it does have a certain ring to it.” He kissed Peter’s cheek. “Goodbye, brother.”
With a slowly growing smile, he backed up, then jetted away with insane laughter rising above the roar of his jet engine. He and his glider disappeared out the hole Octavius had made.
Peter shoved the burning memory of Harry’s face to the back of his mind and focused on the present. With a tremendous amount of effort, he lifted the rubble up higher and higher. The fuse burned down, no longer sparking but mournfully spitting motes of flame like a dying fire. Peter let go of the rubble and kicked the bomb away. It went off. Ten feet away.
The shockwave seemed to tear through Peter, setting fire to every old wound and fresh bruise in his body. He hit the wall abruptly, darkness spotting his vision.
Boulder-sized chunks of plaster fell on Peter, knocking him down and burying him. He shouldered the burden, tried to crawl out. An ear-splitting shriek alerted him to a metal air duct tearing free from the ceiling. It toppled toward him like an avalanche.
Peter lifted his hands up and shot webbing at it, trying to slow it down. The webs snapped as soon as they formed. The air duct landed, so hard it crashed Peter through the floor. In the crawlspace, surrounded by broken floorboard and pinned down by the collapsed ceiling, he sobbed in agony. It was only then that he noticed the pumpkin bomb had set his costume on fire in places. He patted them out, breathlessly gagging on pain.
“Okay… okay… okay… okay…” he repeated like a mantra, trying to clear his head of the pain. His legs were there, he just couldn’t see them. They weren’t gone, he wouldn’t be spending his life in a wheelchair, he wouldn’t die. He just had to get free. Just an inch…
He reached up and dug his fingers into the rubble. He was able to move some of the smaller pieces, but the air duct was implacable, a thousand tons, a million. He couldn’t even budge it. He collapsed, exhausted.
No use… Just gotta… rest for a while…
He looked at his mask. It seemed to stare at him, his face reflected in the huge eye lenses. His face, sweaty and bruised and old far too soon, with eyes that should’ve been bright instead of haunted. He was a young man in love. What use did he have for ghosts?
“What?” he asked the mask. “I did the best I could. I fought the good fight. What more can I do?” He thought it over and it sounded good to voice his conclusions. “Someone will come. They’ll dig me out. They’ll take care of Otto and Harry… before it’s too late…”
He wiped at his face, wiped away the tears of pain and the sweat and the faintest trace of lipstick left from Mary-Jane’s kiss. Don’t let that be the last one I give you.
He shook his head. “Stop kidding yourself, Parker. If I don’t get free, Octavius will kill Mary-Jane… and it’ll be my fault. Just like what happened to Uncle Ben.”
Under the mask’s approving gaze, he set his hands against the floor and pushed. As hard as he could, as long as he could. When he faltered and fell, Peter took a deep breath and started again.
I can’t let it happen a second time… I won’t!
The rubble moved up a few inches, rivulets of it bleeding down to jangle around Peter’s head and fall to the ground. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He stuck a leg out and knelt on it, continuing to build steam.
Anyone can win a fight when the odds are easy. It’s when there seems to be no chance at all… that’s when it counts!
His leg straightened. His arms burned. Sweat stung his eyes. His breath came in deep gulps, tasting of decay, rot. The rubble had been raised several feet, but he didn’t dare look to see how much more it would take. He just concentrated on getting his other leg out, standing on it.. And with one last, tremendous act of will he threw the rubble away. It shattered on the floor, a crumpled, dead dragon.
Bruised and battered, but every inch of him electrified nonetheless, Peter picked up his mask, dusted it off, and pulled it on.
Spider-Man was back.
***
The guests had run straight into the arms of the police and press. It was pandemonium. George shook his head as a thousand conflicting stories hit the witness statements and airwaves. It would be a mess sorting this all out. His mess.
“What’s taking so long?” he demanded of a fire marshal.
”The entire upper floors are locked down. We can’t get up there.”
George looked up at the skyscraper, and the smoke emanating from its top floor. “They say Spider-Man is up there… but no one saw him left.
”You think he’s dead?” the fire marshal asked.
”…no one can win them all,” George answered at long last.
The sound of cracking glass was there only warning. A red and blue form, trailing rubble and smoke, dropped, shot out a webline, and swung triumphantly. George watched Spider-Man disappear into the distance.
”Go get ‘em Spidey.”
The_Lurker
Date: 2009-09-13 07:56 am (UTC)Second: Your writing in this chapter is SO GOOD! Other chapters are very good, this one is so much BETTER! You know, the kind of writing that makes you go: "I wish i could write like that someday!"
Also, it totally make sense that Harry didn't kill Pete himself. The 'brother' bit was a nice touch.