Back to GatefoldIssue #29 by Nate Charles
|
"FRIENDS & ENEMIES, OLD & NEW - Prologue"
A wise man once told Peter Parker that with great power comes great responsibility. Throughout the years, Peter Parker has learned time and time again how true that phrase is, yet how incomplete it is as well. Times like these. As Peter sat in the waiting room of a New York City hospital, this thought entered his cluttered mind.
With great power comes great responsibility. With great power comes great sorrow. With great power comes pain for you and those you love. With great power comes the inability to live a normal life. With great power comes every Tom, Dick, and Norman molesting every corner of your existence.
He pushed the thoughts from his mind, because, when he took a step back and looked at it, he was degrading his Uncle Ben's words. Uncle Ben. He couldn't believe he had gotten a chance to talk to the man one last time, as well as Mary Jane. Though it had only happened a few hours ago, it felt like a lifetime, so much had changed already. He had lost two other people close to him and nearly a third.
Jill Stacy was dead. Someone had been kind enough to put a bullet into her brain, which Peter had hoped was quick and painless. It was little consolation, however, and Peter vowed he'd make whoever was responsible pay.
It was logical to assume that the same person or people were responsible for the disappearance of his daughter. That was always the way it worked out for him, wasn't it? Something good comes into his life, something that is possibly the only reminder of someone special to him that was lost, in this case MJ, and would be torn away from him like everything else. It was frustrating, no, infuriating was the word. Who knew of few others with his kind of powers who had suffered through so much tragedy on a regular basis.
He was relieved that Gene was alive, for the moment at least, but how extensive the damage done to his mind would if he stayed that way the doctors couldn't even predict. Gene was yet another recipient of a shot to the head, but the hospital personnel were fairly confident they could save him.* Peter hoped so, for he had promised never to take a life, but losing three people in one day would push even his limits.
* (Yeah, everything before that * happened last ish. -Nate)
Peter sighed, because he realized what he should be using his time for and it wasn't whining or dwelling on his seemingly constant bad luck. No, he should be pondering one very important question.
Who did this?
Osborn is the first to come to mind, but he's dead, not that that ever stop him before. Could Kafka being pulling the strings, because with her taking her cues from Norman recently, it's possible she isn't really dead as well. Then again, Doc Ock has vowed revenge, but, last time I checked at least, he didn't know my identity, nor does my other suspect, the Hobgoblin, whose latest scheme would most likely, as all his plots do, in keeping me distracted or murdering me outright.
So, if it isn't them, them whom? Well, whoever it was, when I catch up with I'll... Oh crap! My spider sense is jumping off the charts!
At that moment, Parker's precognition paid off, as his left leg spasmed against the ground, forcing his figure into the air just as the wall behind his seat exploded. As his right hand flipped the trigger of his web shooter into his palm, Peter's left hand reached beneath his shirt collar, pulling the black webbed, red mask over his head. Those in the waiting room wouldn't notice his sudden change. Hitting the trigger on his palm, Parker stopped his ascent with a webline, which drew taunt and shot him just around the corner, into a deserted hallway, the first piece of decent luck to come his way all day, for it was the perfect place to complete his identity metamorphosis.
From his position, Peter could hear a footfall come out of the hole where his chair used to be. If he was a betting man, which he wasn't, but if he was, he'd place a million that some super villain rhetoric would follow shortly.
He was right.
The man who stepped through that big, smoking hole in the wall looked to be, scary as it was, America personified. He was a man at least in his early thirties, his face obscured by a navy blue domino mask, his chestplate a golden eagle, whose head extended over his Adam's apple, and with wings that protected his shoulders. The shirt beneath this chestplate, covers his arms and stomach, and was the same color as the man's mask. Within his red gauntleted hands, he held indescribable, advanced, automatic assault weaponry; stuff possibly acquired by murdering a SHIELD agent or cutting a deal with HYDRA. His pants were desert camouflage, Army surplus material in all likelihood, as were the combat boots. The most intimidating aspect of him was probably his belt, which held, in full visibility, several explosives and small arms.
Say something... prove me right. Lambaste everyone whom you've intruded upon with you sick twisted ideas. Go right ahead; give me even more of a reason to beat the snot out of you, Parker thought, stripping off his jeans, completing the switch from angry innocent bystander to angry arachnid superhero.
And so, as Spider-Man awaited the appropriate moment to reveal his presence to his adversary, the intruder began his speech.
"Disease is weakness! Injury is weakness! This country must be cleansed of weakness. All wounds, and therefore, the wounded, must be eliminated! So says Whitewash! Anybody who cares to disagree, just step right up and I'll put a bullet in your ass, too."
And that was the webslinger's cue, which he accepted wholeheartedly. "Then color me a dissident to your regime, Soapsuds." Spider-Man said, sardonic in tone, to the hulking figure as he stepped around the corner. Whitewash lost his confidence to a look confused for a moment, for he wasn't really expecting anyone to take him up on the challenge. Then he remembered that he was the one holding all the heavy artillery and his confidence quickly returned. "And just who the hell do you think you are Mr. Bigshot?"
The eagle clad psycho quickly got his answer, for when he turned to face his protestor, he was met with ham heavy fist to his jaw, which knocked him to the ground. "I know that I'm Spider-Man and I know that you will not hurt anyone in this hospital today," the arachnid growled, slightly squatting with his legs and hunching his shoulders simultaneously, putting him into an insect-like fighting stance. "Go ahead, get up. I'm in the mood for a fight."
"Is that so, webhead?" Whitewash sneered, lifting himself from the floor. "Then eat this!" He spun on to his back with the speed and grace most animals could only hope to match and pressed the one gun, which all it really was, an over glorified gun, which he had managed to retain into Spider-Man's taunt, muscled abdomen.
Once again, his spider sense, assisted by a slow trigger finger, saved his life, allowing him to slide forward on his right foot, not only sending himself back first to the floor, but also slamming said foot into Whitewash's crotch, causing the madman to cry out in agony. Problem was, if he didn't act fast enough, Spider-Man would have to deal with the consequences of bullets being hurled into the walls and ceiling, and possibly hurting innocent people. Utilizing his agility, he brought up his left foot, sending the heel of his boot careening into the gun and smashing it upward, snapping Whitewash's left arm in the process, amplifying his howl of pain.
"I'm sick of people like you, Streetsweeper." Spider-Man said, sufficiently gluing the terrorist's hands and feet to the floor. "People who think life itself is life's very weakness. Doesn't make much sense now, does it?" He reached down and with the strength of a demon tore the belt off Whitewash. "Don't worry about it, though, you'll have plenty of time to think of it, won't you?"
Whitewash worked up enough courage to spit at the webslinger, and missing by a mile. "You're damn right I will, and someday, I'll get out, and when I do, you're first on my list, insect!" At this, Spider-Man leaned in close, ignoring the risk of another saliva wad. "That's good, because let me tell you right now that I'll be watching, waiting, and ready when it happens."
With that, Spider-Man turned away from his subdued foe, hoping the punk realized how lucky he was that he didn't work all his rage out on him, and vanished around the corner. A few seconds later, the visitors, those who would have spent the last five minutes waiting, but instead wasted them cowering, emerged from their hiding places. A minute later the police arrived and a minute after that, Peter Parker returned from the restroom, all business he needed to accomplish finished. An hour past and the police had concluded questioning their witnesses, gathering evidence, and eventually had left. It was then that he met with Eugene's father, who had just arrived, having been held up in a traffic, and embraced him in a somber action, one he was all too familiar with, offering what little consolation he could to the man.
Two hours later.
Doctor Walker had spent the past five hours in surgery, for removing a bullet from the human brain was not a short, easy task. He stepped into the waiting room, sighing and approached the father and friend of his patient.
"The operation was a success, the patient will live."
Peter should have been happy and even acted so for Eugene's father's sake, but, deep within his very soul, he had a sick feeling things were going to get worse before they got better. He prayed he would wrong.
Would he once again be proven right?
NEXT ISSUE: The beginning.
With great power comes great responsibility. With great power comes great sorrow. With great power comes pain for you and those you love. With great power comes the inability to live a normal life. With great power comes every Tom, Dick, and Norman molesting every corner of your existence.
He pushed the thoughts from his mind, because, when he took a step back and looked at it, he was degrading his Uncle Ben's words. Uncle Ben. He couldn't believe he had gotten a chance to talk to the man one last time, as well as Mary Jane. Though it had only happened a few hours ago, it felt like a lifetime, so much had changed already. He had lost two other people close to him and nearly a third.
Jill Stacy was dead. Someone had been kind enough to put a bullet into her brain, which Peter had hoped was quick and painless. It was little consolation, however, and Peter vowed he'd make whoever was responsible pay.
It was logical to assume that the same person or people were responsible for the disappearance of his daughter. That was always the way it worked out for him, wasn't it? Something good comes into his life, something that is possibly the only reminder of someone special to him that was lost, in this case MJ, and would be torn away from him like everything else. It was frustrating, no, infuriating was the word. Who knew of few others with his kind of powers who had suffered through so much tragedy on a regular basis.
He was relieved that Gene was alive, for the moment at least, but how extensive the damage done to his mind would if he stayed that way the doctors couldn't even predict. Gene was yet another recipient of a shot to the head, but the hospital personnel were fairly confident they could save him.* Peter hoped so, for he had promised never to take a life, but losing three people in one day would push even his limits.
* (Yeah, everything before that * happened last ish. -Nate)
Peter sighed, because he realized what he should be using his time for and it wasn't whining or dwelling on his seemingly constant bad luck. No, he should be pondering one very important question.
Who did this?
Osborn is the first to come to mind, but he's dead, not that that ever stop him before. Could Kafka being pulling the strings, because with her taking her cues from Norman recently, it's possible she isn't really dead as well. Then again, Doc Ock has vowed revenge, but, last time I checked at least, he didn't know my identity, nor does my other suspect, the Hobgoblin, whose latest scheme would most likely, as all his plots do, in keeping me distracted or murdering me outright.
So, if it isn't them, them whom? Well, whoever it was, when I catch up with I'll... Oh crap! My spider sense is jumping off the charts!
At that moment, Parker's precognition paid off, as his left leg spasmed against the ground, forcing his figure into the air just as the wall behind his seat exploded. As his right hand flipped the trigger of his web shooter into his palm, Peter's left hand reached beneath his shirt collar, pulling the black webbed, red mask over his head. Those in the waiting room wouldn't notice his sudden change. Hitting the trigger on his palm, Parker stopped his ascent with a webline, which drew taunt and shot him just around the corner, into a deserted hallway, the first piece of decent luck to come his way all day, for it was the perfect place to complete his identity metamorphosis.
From his position, Peter could hear a footfall come out of the hole where his chair used to be. If he was a betting man, which he wasn't, but if he was, he'd place a million that some super villain rhetoric would follow shortly.
He was right.
The man who stepped through that big, smoking hole in the wall looked to be, scary as it was, America personified. He was a man at least in his early thirties, his face obscured by a navy blue domino mask, his chestplate a golden eagle, whose head extended over his Adam's apple, and with wings that protected his shoulders. The shirt beneath this chestplate, covers his arms and stomach, and was the same color as the man's mask. Within his red gauntleted hands, he held indescribable, advanced, automatic assault weaponry; stuff possibly acquired by murdering a SHIELD agent or cutting a deal with HYDRA. His pants were desert camouflage, Army surplus material in all likelihood, as were the combat boots. The most intimidating aspect of him was probably his belt, which held, in full visibility, several explosives and small arms.
Say something... prove me right. Lambaste everyone whom you've intruded upon with you sick twisted ideas. Go right ahead; give me even more of a reason to beat the snot out of you, Parker thought, stripping off his jeans, completing the switch from angry innocent bystander to angry arachnid superhero.
And so, as Spider-Man awaited the appropriate moment to reveal his presence to his adversary, the intruder began his speech.
"Disease is weakness! Injury is weakness! This country must be cleansed of weakness. All wounds, and therefore, the wounded, must be eliminated! So says Whitewash! Anybody who cares to disagree, just step right up and I'll put a bullet in your ass, too."
And that was the webslinger's cue, which he accepted wholeheartedly. "Then color me a dissident to your regime, Soapsuds." Spider-Man said, sardonic in tone, to the hulking figure as he stepped around the corner. Whitewash lost his confidence to a look confused for a moment, for he wasn't really expecting anyone to take him up on the challenge. Then he remembered that he was the one holding all the heavy artillery and his confidence quickly returned. "And just who the hell do you think you are Mr. Bigshot?"
The eagle clad psycho quickly got his answer, for when he turned to face his protestor, he was met with ham heavy fist to his jaw, which knocked him to the ground. "I know that I'm Spider-Man and I know that you will not hurt anyone in this hospital today," the arachnid growled, slightly squatting with his legs and hunching his shoulders simultaneously, putting him into an insect-like fighting stance. "Go ahead, get up. I'm in the mood for a fight."
"Is that so, webhead?" Whitewash sneered, lifting himself from the floor. "Then eat this!" He spun on to his back with the speed and grace most animals could only hope to match and pressed the one gun, which all it really was, an over glorified gun, which he had managed to retain into Spider-Man's taunt, muscled abdomen.
Once again, his spider sense, assisted by a slow trigger finger, saved his life, allowing him to slide forward on his right foot, not only sending himself back first to the floor, but also slamming said foot into Whitewash's crotch, causing the madman to cry out in agony. Problem was, if he didn't act fast enough, Spider-Man would have to deal with the consequences of bullets being hurled into the walls and ceiling, and possibly hurting innocent people. Utilizing his agility, he brought up his left foot, sending the heel of his boot careening into the gun and smashing it upward, snapping Whitewash's left arm in the process, amplifying his howl of pain.
"I'm sick of people like you, Streetsweeper." Spider-Man said, sufficiently gluing the terrorist's hands and feet to the floor. "People who think life itself is life's very weakness. Doesn't make much sense now, does it?" He reached down and with the strength of a demon tore the belt off Whitewash. "Don't worry about it, though, you'll have plenty of time to think of it, won't you?"
Whitewash worked up enough courage to spit at the webslinger, and missing by a mile. "You're damn right I will, and someday, I'll get out, and when I do, you're first on my list, insect!" At this, Spider-Man leaned in close, ignoring the risk of another saliva wad. "That's good, because let me tell you right now that I'll be watching, waiting, and ready when it happens."
With that, Spider-Man turned away from his subdued foe, hoping the punk realized how lucky he was that he didn't work all his rage out on him, and vanished around the corner. A few seconds later, the visitors, those who would have spent the last five minutes waiting, but instead wasted them cowering, emerged from their hiding places. A minute later the police arrived and a minute after that, Peter Parker returned from the restroom, all business he needed to accomplish finished. An hour past and the police had concluded questioning their witnesses, gathering evidence, and eventually had left. It was then that he met with Eugene's father, who had just arrived, having been held up in a traffic, and embraced him in a somber action, one he was all too familiar with, offering what little consolation he could to the man.
Two hours later.
Doctor Walker had spent the past five hours in surgery, for removing a bullet from the human brain was not a short, easy task. He stepped into the waiting room, sighing and approached the father and friend of his patient.
"The operation was a success, the patient will live."
Peter should have been happy and even acted so for Eugene's father's sake, but, deep within his very soul, he had a sick feeling things were going to get worse before they got better. He prayed he would wrong.
Would he once again be proven right?
NEXT ISSUE: The beginning.