Chapter 3

Dates and Figures

"You've stopped selling pictures of Spider-man." Captain George Stacy leaned against the lip of his desk. His classroom was empty but for one student. Peter Parker was unsettled with poor posture in the front row seat. He was here with an uncharacteristic excused absence from his biology class. Leaning on his wrists as the teenager looked at Spider-man's ally and the father of the woman he loved. He truly loved Gwen. What he felt for Liz, MJ and Cat were harder to categorize.

"Disagreement with J Jonah," Peter declared tersely.

"Gargan?" So understanding, George was just a solid good man. Peter hated lying to him, so he dodged the core of everything. "That was just the straw that broke the spider's back."

"Hello Nurse!" Sergeant Stan Carter was covering a shift as a favor for Al O'Neil a less decorated member of the force. Besides, there were worse beats than sitting outside the hospital room of a comatose supervillain. Turns out the view was desirable as well.

"Hello Sergeant!" The nurse, a tall black woman with the hint of an accent called back with a bright smile. She was wheeling a cart with bedpans, a box of latex gloves and assorted brushes, sponges and bottles. She made her way towards a small closet near the next turn in the hallway. She gave one last flashing smile back towards the sergeant. The smile left her face the moment the door separated line of sight with her and the policeman. She had felt the eyes on her backside. Her eyes went wide when she saw the same sergeant, stripped to his underpants and trussed up on the floor of the closet. The stiff hand at her back hurried her into the closet before she could turn on the man with the scalpel she had taped to her wrist.

"Cool down, Calypso," The familiar voice came from the unfamiliar face. "I only came to check on Sergei as well."

"Dmitri." Calypso acknowledged with a flat stare. There was only one man who could steal a face and voice as successfully.

"The doctors are quite capable. Bromwell instills a great deal of trust in his competence." The Chameleon explained to the black woman. "Sergei's augmentations ... They encourage his recovery."

The man on the floor grunted and Calypso silenced him with a short kick from the back of her heel. "Is he awake?"

"No, but the coma is instilled not a symptom. Sergei is too strong and risks hurting himself greatly if he moves too much before healing." Calypso leaned into the soft stroke of her cheek. "My brother has faced greater odds."

"He has overcome them all," Calypso agreed, "Except for Spider-man."

"I have noticed. I have my own reasons and my own plans to deal with Spider-man." Chameleon declared. "Sergei just makes things more important."

"I will not sit idly by," Calypso declared.

"Nor would I have you do so." From inside the New York Police Department uniform he pulled out several photographs and a folded printout.

"What are these?" Calypso asked, a dark smile expanding on her lips as she shuffled through each picture. A snort of derision was followed by a triumphant laugh.

"They show a weapon I suspect you would have no difficulty in wielding." Stan Carter's grin was almost demonic when Chameleon made use of it.

"Very well, Dmitri," Calypso pocketed the pictures and note, "I will be going to Florida."

She[1] felt naked driving the Porsche. Her uniform replaced with, ugh, civvies. She was wearing a discreet black dress under a dark blue coat and her hair was falling loose without her chauffeur's cap. She attached the forged placard on the rearview mirror and entered Oscorp through a side gate. The visitor's pass clipped to her lapel encouraged the security guard to say nothing as he looked her over. She approached his desk.

"I'm looking for Morris Bench.[2]" She explained.

"Sixth floor. Room 616. Take the left out of the elevator." The guard[3] answered after a quick check of his computer.

"Thank you," She smiled and turned before she received one in return. She walked quickly, purposefully. The elevator was rapid and she rode alone. Morris wasn't in his office but in a drafting workshop across the hall. He was looking over blueprints of the oil tanker that had exploded in the harbor a few months ago. He was getting good mileage out of his red Sharpie.

"Mr Bench." She alerted him from the door. He looked up.

"It's Morrie. Can I help you? Miss..." He asked. He enjoyed looking her over as she stepped in and closed the door behind her.

"Miss Jenkins, if you must. My employer would like to request your services." She announced. Her short heeled shoes still clicked as she walked over to him.

"I've got my hands full with this contract to clear out the Hudson." He explained with a soft smile, "I wouldn't be much use to your boss until I clear my plate."

"My employer offers great incentives." Jenkins explained. She sneered when he took that opportunity to look her up and down.

"Such as?" Morrie saw no harm in listening.

"Paying your mortgage for your support. Explaining to the cops how you supplied Doctor Octopus with undocumented Oscorp explosives for your refusal." She watched the color clear from his face. His lips twisted in a grimace and he contemplated punching this smug bitch.The satisfying fantasy of her broken nose kept him calm. He stood up and squirreled away his offense and anger.

"What do you need of me?"

"Your expertise, your time and your signature." She explained and he followed her as she left.

"Mary Jane! You were needed 5 minutes ago. Chop chop!" MJ learned one the earliest skills needed as a model was running from the dressing area to the studio and back in the most awkward of shoes. Her rapid click click click raced with enough poise to contain the hair the stylist had required more time on.

"Mr Parker, you're not going to hold me up now?" Desiree Vaughn-Pope demanded when his camera didn't instantly raise up.

"No ma'am," Peter said, his sarcastic smile lighting up the redhead model in front of him.

"Revanna Number 5 is to be sold with aloofness and confidence. So wipe the smile off, Mary Jane," Vaughn-Pope demanded.

"Now that sounds like a quick way to lose money." Roderick Kingsley's voice set all employees in the studio into better posture. He and his protection, Jason, strode in with all the confidence of kings.

"What brings you down to my neck of the woods, Mr Kingsley?" The director managed to coat every falsely polite syllable in venom.

"Just because I have my plate full with Oscorp doesn't mean I can neglect the rest of my business." Roderick Kingsley had a gracious smarminess that sunk under the skin of Peter Parker. MJ's eyebrow rose as she watched the photographer's face.

"Well, this interruption is costing you money." Vaughn-Pope shrugged. "But inspect as you will, all things are working at otherwise peak performance."

"Not quite what the accountants are telling me," Kingsley announced. The words entering the air like a slap to the face. He stepped passed the woman and towards Peter. "Where do I know you from photographer?"

"He was with the Bugle reporter at the Oscorp ceremony." Jason explained from his perch at Kingsley's shoulder. The perfume magnate seemed to prefer getting his information from his security than from Peter himself. Peter attempted to speak again and was just as quickly overstepped.

"I'm surprised you forgot. You found me on his arm." MJ flashed her smile. Roderick took one of her hands.

"I'm surprised I remembered my name after meeting you." The redhead blushed and Peter felt himself grinding his teeth. Quickly, he noticed both Desiree and Jason were looking at him. The woman approved; the man did not. Kingsley turned to the director once again, "Is Lily in the back?"

"She's preparing for her next shoot." Vaughn-Pope confirmed.

"She'll have to reschedule." Kingsley announced.

"I can go fetch her," MJ stepped down from the platform and out of the bright lights.

"Thank you, Mary," Kingsley smiled broadly and MJ found herself brushing her hair back over her ear. Her green eyes went wide in question when they met Peter's barely concealed scowl. She was getting quite good at hurrying in stilettos.

The backroom was only separated from the studio by a heavy curtain. More than likely, Lily who was sitting at the row of vanity tables, had heard the conversation outside. She was still taking the time to double check her makeup. MJ came up over Lily's right shoulder. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"Mr Kingsley's come to pick you up?" MJ was not much of a gossip. Talk about what happened last night or who and who got together always bored her. She was more of a what's next kind of girl. Impending gossip stoked her interest.

"Yes we're going to dinner with my dad." Lily explained. She decided that she needed new earrings. She took some dangly silver and diamond ones to replace her gold loops.

"Sounds serious," MJ decided but she watched Lily shake her head with a laugh. MJ's eyes went wide. "You're going out with him for your career?"

"No, that's just a quick way to destroy any credible reputation you could hope to have. Word of that gets out and that kind of press will follow you to the end of your short career." Lily turned in her chair and took MJ by her hands. "Look if the opportunity for you to join someone like Roderick Kingsley in bed, do it because his looks, his personality or his power excites you. Sex should be more than falling onto a sword to further the campaign."

"Uh," MJ didn't know how to respond to that. Her gears turned but they felt like they were caked in rust and grinding to a halt. "Is that why you and Mr Kingsley..."

"Not at all," Lily flashed her money making smile. "He wants to support my dad's campaign for mayor."

'Oh! Your dad's Bill Hollister!" MJ put the facts together. "I thought, with the Oscorp party and--"

"We're not dating, but it is often lucrative to have a supermodel on your arm." Lily interrupted. "Besides, I like those kinds of parties. That's where I met you."

"Yeah, I guess," MJ pondered, "I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions."

"Don't worry about it," Lily stood up and gave MJ a Hollywood hug and a kiss on the cheek. "I've got to help my dad win. The city needs a great man like him."

"Really? He's no Carlos Danger." MJ sniffed in sarcastic derision. Lily Hollister couldn't look MJ in the face again as she laughed her way to meet Roderick Kingsley.

"You sure that's the best move?" George asked. His voice was touched with fatherly concern and police interrogation.

"He put me and my friends in danger! He had his hand in creating the Scorpion! How can I trust him?" Peter slumped down. There was something in Stacy blue eyes that cut right through him. It made the teenaged superhero think of Uncle Ben and even of Norman Osborn. The sting settled deeper.

"He's predictable. He hates Spider-man." The captain explained. "He also has respect for the law and for the safety and well being of his employees. Gargan wasn't dangerous when he was following you."

"I can't believe you'd defend him!" Pain fuels outrage and Peter was looking vicious.

"I have to defend all of the people in this city." George narrowed his eyes, "Anyone who takes on the mantle of protector knows: You can't pick and choose."

Peter Parker needed to blow off steam. Three jobs, a stifling curfew, school, money troubles, a best friend who hated him, a love who couldn't be with him, other women who kept his head spun like a top, and a responsibility to protect the city he called home. Luckily, the last weight on his shoulders came with some pretty impressive benefits. The Atlantic wind and New York lights whipped by the young hero as he swept unhindered above the Thursday evening traffic. Three motorcycles ducked and weaved dangerously through traffic. They were chasing an old fashioned blue car that seemed to have the most capable stunt driver ever trained. Lagging behind Spider-man, were several panel vans stuck behind the mess left in the wake of the chase.

Spider-man didn't recognize the car, but he did notice the machine pistols strapped to the back of the motorcyclists.

The lights seemed to stretch in the speed. Cutting lights created red and gold squares as the cars ducked into and around traffic. The shrill bark of horns and the high pitched screech of rubber and asphalt billowed up from the streets.The helmeted soldiers slowed little. Their control over their bikes was masterful. They still watched in frustrated awe as the old clunker of a car they chased pitched and weaved through the traffic. A garbage truck twisted hard to avoid a head on collision. The motorcycles just split and rushed around as the sound of glass doors shattering disappeared behind them. They didn't look back; they were going too fast and they didn't dare discover the etymology behind "breakneck speed".

"Spider-man!" The driver of the garbage truck gasped as he found himself on a web hammock stretched between two street lights. He watched New York's hero fly off thinking, "Great just when my wife stopped believing the 'Spider-man made me late for dinner excuse.'" At least tonight he didn't smell like his sister-in-law's perfume.

The chase was still weaving through the streets of New York. The flash of police lights and the call of sirens were still too far off to matter. The air was beat with the sound of helicopter blades. The first police chopper didn't pitch when the web connected to its belly. The hero hanging from it shouted for joy as his arc slingshotted Spider-man into the fray.

The middle motorcycle was beginning to trail. He was using his wider angle to spit warnings and orders to the others while he looked for his own opening to catch up. He smirked behind the black plastic of his motorcycle helmet as he swerved onto the sidewalk. A woman screamed as she dived out of the way. He slammed into a pyramid sign advertising $5 hamburger platter with purchase of drink. The wooden planks snapped together, twisting as he had hit them from the left edge. The smack of wood and steel suggested they had collided with the trunk of a parked sedan. He gunned the throttle. His math was good. The mess of the street was only getting worse and he intended to jump an overturned hot dog cart and land in a relatively free lane that would speed him up along the left side of the careening car. His motorcycle made the landing beautifully before it fell empty to the left and spun out and against a parking meter.

"Spider-man's here!" he screamed into his radio. He dangled in the web that had seemed to arise instantly before him. He watched Spider-man, his colleagues and the huge payday flashed around the next right turn. He thought it couldn't get any worse as the woman he almost knocked down started screaming bloody murder and beating his legs with her purse. What did she keep in that thing? Bricks?

The classic car rolled up on two wheels as it swung into and through the arm of a car park. The splinters of plastic were blasted all over the front of a small Toyota that was squealing as it accelerated backwards and out of the way of the driver.

"Second level," Hammerhead crossed his fingers in his lap as his driver complied. His knuckles cracked. These upstarts were about to learn why Hammerhead had risen to second both to Silvermane and to Tombstone. His shoulders rolled and his neck echoed his knuckles. Jenkins avoided the smile he wore when she looked to her rearview mirror.

"I'm starting to hate parking garages," Spider-man announced. He swung into the six story carpark on the fifth level. "Well at least this time I won't have to team up with Rhino." He slipped seamlessly to the shadows, giving up little speed as he descended to meet the motorcyclists and the car. He pulled up his sleeve and the hem of his shirt. The cartridge quickly clicked into place.

The exits were blocked. Unless Hammerhead decided to take his car straight off the edge of the higher floors, he was caged. The motorcycles were stashed on the lower floor. Each soldier slung his submachine gun to his hand. They each had two extra clips under their jackets. A big knife and a pistol completely their arsenal. It was going to be a few minutes before their reinforcements arrived. They had three options, complete the mission just the two of them, hold out for reinforcements, or pin down Hammerhead. They cocked their guns and hustled up to their target.

Jenkins had the car idling in front of the elevators. She triple checked her sidearm. She never once looked over her shoulder to check on Hammerhead. She knew he was good. He wouldn't be dead until he told her he was.

"Courtesies of the big man!" The bullets started slamming into the car. The lucite glass started spider webbing from the impact. The armored panels started to dent. Jenkins rolled her window down nine and a quarter millimeters.

"Tomby's still giving gifts?" The first soldier, who was giving cover fire was spun around as the web connected with his wrists. The single bullet from the car clipped the soldier's shoulder. "I thought he was kicked out of our Secret Santa."

Spider-man accented this with a kick to sending the stooge onto his back. The hero proceeded to strike quick tableaux out of the path of three small calibre bullets. "Hey hold off until I can get to you! There's still another goon to take down first!"

There was a steel and bone crack. From the left side of the car collapsed the body of the other foot soldier. Hammerhead stepped out and cracked his knuckles.

"No need Webhead," Hammerhead smirked, "I saved this dance for you."

"Hammy!" Spider-man flung his arms opened, "I was so worried! You should have left a note."

Partly to jump out of the way of another bullet, Spider-man dived at Hammerhead. The mobster had his reinforced skull down and was charging. Spider-man had thrown himself into a spear tackle. They collided shoulder to shoulder. Hammerhead's heavier body carried nearly as much momentum as Spidey's faster one. The pair collapsed into a heap. He only managed to hop back, and then cartwheel left, by the smallest of margins. Hammerhead's knuckles left a divot in the asphalt. Jenkins' bullet whistled A-flat passed the spider's ear.

"Boss!" Jenkins one word carried several warnings and two alerts. A black panel van wobbled onto the scene. A pineapple grenade clattered next to Hammerhead. He'd have been caught in the blast if Spidey didn't snatch the weapon in his web and throw it far away from the battle. The air rippled in concussion. Spider-man managed to turn himself out of line of shrapnel. Hammerhead's fist collided with the small of his back. The hero collapsed onto the ground with a grumble.

"We got the exits covered!" The side and back of the van opened releasing five soldiers. The elevator doors crinkled as explosions blasted behind them. "Whoever kills the traitor gets an additional two shares."

"Any bonus for Spidey?"

"Same as always." Five shooters grinned as they replaced magazines. Bloodlust and greed fought for supremacy.

Hammerhead slammed the door behind him. He picked up a radio detonator from the seat on his left. "We set?"

Jenkins answered by putting the car into gear. Her foot slammed down on the accelerator. She clipped the first mook as Spider-man gathered himself up onto his feet. Hammerhead was rushing for the concrete lip that prevents cars from driving off the edge.

"Hey boys, you can get your own date." The sharpness of Spider-man's quip died as the tingles hit him harder than the grenade had. "No! Get out!" He shouted. His own web pulling him out and away from the parking garage. He watched aghast as the old car broke through the barrier flying over a small promenade, aiming for the street. The whole second floor blasted outward. Rippling detonations moving outward, collapsing the dust and debris inward.

"No..." Peter only managed to snatch his camera a heartbeat before that area started to collapse. Angry and in disbelief he raced around the perimeter of ruin. He wanted Hammerhead. How hard could it be to find an old model car riddled with bullet wounds in this city?

Minutes before his curfew, he collapsed into his bed. Frustration stepped aside for exhaustion. He hadn't even bothered to take off his spider-shirt.

Felicia Hardy owned more clothes than just white furred catsuits. In truth, she had spent a significant portion of her profits expanding her wardrobe. However, she only liked to wear jewelry that she had stolen. The gold kittens in her earlobes and the Stuyvesant tiger resting above her cleavage were her favorites. She wore her dress like she was born to it. The slide and shift of the skirt flashed her long perfect legs. She moved without hurry. The steward hurried ahead of her to make certain she didn't have to reach for a door. She was stylish enough to project an air of invisibility upon the help. This was a meeting a long time coming.

"Miss Hardy, you're as lovely as they say," The man she was meeting was the youngest of the three minds that had built Tri-Corp. He was also the most eccentric. His interests expanded beyond the scientific. This meeting room was a testament to his hobbies. Old manuscripts were protected under glass display cases. Ancient relics stood on pedestals. The thief took in the veritable gold mine of ancient art and suppressed her urges. Few men would pay quite as much as he had for the baubles. That was why Felicia carried the steel briefcase in her left hand.

He was kept out of Tri-Corp's public face. His proclivities and deviances from science would reflect poorly on the leading research and development company. These were only the first reasons. The rest was understandable the moment you saw Michael. His skin was gaunt and pale. His hair was unmanaged and limp. A wheelchair was readily available in the corner of his room. He hid a red splotched handkerchief in his coat pocket. Yet, he still managed to wear the nine thousand dollar suit as well as she wore her gown.

"I doubt that. Words cannot begin to express my loveliness," Felicia walked over to him and allowed a soft kiss on her cheek. "Now Mr.--"

"Please Miss Hardy," He took her hand and led her way to the long table where a decanter of brandy waited. He held her seat and pushed it in for her. She smiled at his gentlemanly way, "Call me Michael.[4]"

"Very well Michael," Felicia never offered her first name. She lifted the briefcase and set it on the table. "Shall we start with business?"

"You have been a bad kitten," Michael took his own seat. A tremor preventing him from maintaining his confident posture, "Tri-Corp has lost considerably to your incursions."

"If I had any belief you would contact me as you had for a trial or a vendetta, I would've taken other actions," Felicia pressed, "We can flirt if you must but let's leave the unprovable accusations for another time."

"I look forward to it," Michael smiled. His hands offered the brandy. Felicia begged off with a smile but he poured one for himself.

"I notice the Urn of Morbius in your display. Does this dagger finally complete your collection?" Felicia allowed Michael is first drink before resuming her question.

"I've come to admire you Miss Hardy," Michael evaded. "You're resilience, successes and beauty."

"A man of taste," Felicia smiled allowing him to dodge her question.

"I am dying." Michael explained. "I spent all my life as a student of science, biology, medicine. I have come to believe science has failed me. Failed me in part, without it I'd have been long dead, my blood poisoning me from the inside. So, I must surrender or strive for other means. Legends and myths proven tangible thanks to you and those who share your talents."

Felicia's eyes roamed the room. She had acquired the books under the display case against the north wall. Michael stood up as she catalogued each item. Many had disappeared from museums or private collections. Michael made his way over to a large vase. "As you've noticed, this is my most recent addition."

"And?" Felicia pressed.

"The stories are quite clear. With your latest gift," Felicia bristled at the implications of his word choice but held her tongue. Michael gripped the display case as another tremor mocked his projected confidence. "I have received a lease on life I had tried not to bank on. This all thanks to your singular skills."

"I welcome the compliment, Michael," She answered. "But I am more open to tangible benefits."

"Three million dollars." Michael expressed without hesitation. "Has been allocated over the Cayman Island and Swiss bank account numbers you have provided me." He began making his measured way back to his seat and to his drink.

"I don't usually expect a tip." Felicia replied guardedly.

"Sometimes it is as important to move money as it is to make money," Michael's voice was growing hoarse. His hand shook when he reached for the decanter. His eyes twisted in consternation. Felicia responded immediately, she poured an ounce into two different glasses. Felicia understood money. It had several purposes, the first and foremost was to keep score. She was doing quite well in that regard. As she toasted with Michael, watching the gratitude in his eyes for not treating him like an infirm but treating as drinking partner. She considered some of money's other uses. She didn't want a chain holding her. She would have her man scramble the direction Michael's money flowed until following it would be impossible.

"So what is next?" Felicia asked. She liked working for Michael. She had looked forward to this face to face. Now, she considered the benefits of keeping the man behind his mystery.

"Next I need someone with a different set of skills, I'm afraid." Michael put down his empty glass a heartbeat after Felicia's.

"A wizard?" Felicia taunted through a smile.

"Nearly," Michael gave a charming smile. "Now will you join me for dinner?"

"I'm afraid not," Felicia stood. Michael followed. They shared another hug and a light peck. "But you know that sometimes the Cat needs to be let out to play."

Gwen sighed. She sat on the edge of her bed. This was always when it was most difficult. The moments she had to herself stung. Questions and condemnations heaped self-destructively upon her own psyche.

Harry was amazing. He was affectionate, witty, and caring. He could be selfish and inconsiderate, but only at his worst. She had seen less of that since Harry's dad died. It scared her a little. He had been so driven. He had been determined to be the man his dad imagined he could be. Now, it was like he had given up. She was terrified for him. A recovering drug addict needed something, needing a purpose. Gwen became that need for Harry. She had given up her own need for Peter. When she was with Harry, she was letting herself like it.

Gwen Stacy fell back on her bed. She closed her eyes.

"Two slices," Harry ordered.

"Anything to drink?"

"Coke for me, diet for her," Harry collected their food and led Gwen out of the restaurant.

"This is delicious," Gwen announced after bite one.

"What did I tell you?" Harry said smugly. "And now for the funniest movie ever made."

"Airplane?" Gwen prompted.

"What? No. I was talking about The Big Lebowski."

"Well," Gwen smiled, "You're wrong."

"That sounds like challenge, Miss Stacy," Harry raised an eyebrow.

"You know it is Mr Osborn," The parallelism was a poor choice and for a moment Gwen recoiled at the darkness that she saw in Harry's eyes. "We can watch them at my place."

"My place is closer," Harry steeled himself, "Plus I have the better TV."

"OK, I just have to call Dad and tell him where we're ending up." Harry took Gwen's bottle out of her hand while she dialed her dad.

"Hey Dad," Gwen found some cheeriness. "No, not yet. We're going to watch some movies at Harry's. Yeah, his mom will be there. And Houseman. He'll drive me home. Love you, too."

"Sometimes he can be so-" Gwen grumbled as she put her phone back into her purse.

"Nothing wrong with worrying about such an amazing girl," Harry smiled.

"Do you always have to be so nice?" Gwen mumbled through a smile.

"Yes," Harry deadpanned, "Your dad has a gun."

"Fair," Gwen laughed. They walked in amiable silence, mouths full of soda and pizza until they arrived at Harry's.

"May I take your jacket?" Harry offered gentlemanly. Gwen had a private smile as Harry took the windbreaker from her shoulders. He immediately handed it to the passing butler and led her to the family room.

Pepperoni heartburn and sidesplitting laughter eventually bent Gwen Stacy in half. Harry's hand settled on her shoulder and she was watching the second movie laid out across the couch with her head in Harry's lap.