NOTES: Ultimate Marvel was a fanfiction group that took all the titles
at a certain point and jumped five years into the future. I wrote
Spider-Man a bit for the group and am reposting some of the issues
here. Enjoy.
***
"This is all your fault, you know that?"
It doesn't respond. It never responds. If it did I'd freak out.
But, tonight, just like every other night when we have this one-way
conversation, it just lays there on the bed.
Sure, it can't talk, but that doesn't mean it can influence me.
It's beckoning me. Calling out to me.
But I'm here because of this damn thing. My life is where it is because
of it.
I hate it. I hate what it's made me. I hate what it's taken away.
It's not about the rewards, it's never been about the rewards. Now it's
just about maintaining a certain stability. There has to be one
constant in my life.
It knows I depend on it now. It knows that despite everything it's
done, no, BECAUSE of everything it's done I need it more than anything.
It slips on as easy as ever, I'm on autopilot now.
The window is open, the city is waiting.
I turn to the mirror I placed by the window just for this purpose.
"I hate you," I say to the reflection as it mimics me, hating me in
return.
And once again there is no Peter Parker, there is only...
***
Spider-Man
Issue #1
Mr. Parker Goes To Washington
by Jason Kenney
jasonkenney@[EMAIL PROTECTED]
"You still haven't taken it off, have you?"
The question wasn't meant to be sobering but it was. I started to play
with my wedding band with my thumb.
"You still haven't changed your name, have you?"
That question was meant to be sobering and I was sorry I had said it as
soon as I finished.
"You get used to something after so long," she said, running a hand
through her gorgeous hair. "And I've always liked the way it sounds
Mary Jane..."
"...Watson-Parker," we both finish.
"Well, I've gotten used to this. And I've always liked the way it
feels."
Silence. She leaned forward on the balcony railing and looked at the
city before us. I simply stared at her, admiring her beauty as I always
have.
I tell myself once again the same thing I tell myself every thinking
moment:
I was married to a goddess.
"Why did you move here, Peter," she asked, keeping her sites set on the
city.
"It was a change of pace," I said as I came up beside her and leaned on
the railing with her. "There's nothing left for me in New York. There
hasn't been for years, not since Aunt May passed away."
"But why Washington? Why not somewhere else, some place a little
quieter."
"I've lived in the city or near one all my life. It's a part of me."
She hung her head and closed her eyes. "I know."
She means she knows which part. I know which part, too. It's the part
that drove her away.
"MJ," I said, turning to her and turning her towards me, "let's not
talk about this. We don't see each other often enough, let's not fill
the time with this."
She nodded and looked at me.
She'd been crying.
God, I hate myself.
***
"Excuse me, but how do I get to the White House from here?"
The man turned the gun towards me, but I was not about to let him get a
shot off. With a practiced flick of the wrist, webbing shot from the
back of my hand and wrapped around his gun.
Like a good little bad guy he still pulled the trigger.
Heh, I've always enjoyed the sound of a good backfire. And the string
of curses never ceases to amaze me.
"My, you're just as articulate as the guys in New York."
Even with a sore hand he still had his senses and leapt at me, which I
easily dodged.
"And just as smart too!" With a little pressure into the palm of my
right hand I fired some more webbing at the would be thief, only this
was special webbing. My left hand fired some of the same stuff near the
top of a close building. Almost as soon as each strand connected with
its target it contracted.
A special little concoction of mine made just for Washington DC. The
buildings aren't as tall here and the streets are wide. Webswinging
from building to building was pretty hard dodging trucks and people's
heads. So, the amazing contracting webbing!
Not only pulls me up buildings but pulls things closer to me.
Like bad guys.
I quickly did my thing of bundling him up nicely with my regular
webbing from the back of my hand and left him dangling for the cops to
pick up and swung along right after I double checked to make sure the
lady this guy was trying to rob got away. And she did. Looks like she
remembered her purse too.
You wouldn't believe the number of folks who forget.
And I smile. Damn it, I smile. I hate this, I hate who I am like this,
but I can't help but smile.
The site of the thief dangling there is amusing.
The thrill of saving another soul is refreshing.
The rush of the wind is exhilarating.
The joy of being Spider-Man makes me hate it more.
***
Man, working as a staff photographer for the Daily Bugle in DC is a
cakewalk. No Jameson breathing down your neck, no Jameson demanding
pictures NOW, no Jameson doing anything. He can only boss me around by
e-mail, phone, or proxy.
He's in New York and I'm in Washington DC.
And the beats are so easy! Politics, politics, politics. Sure there are
crimes, but they have people for those already, locals to handle that
stuff. I'm an outsider, I don't know anything about the city itself, so
I get the easy stuff.
Today it's chasing a congressman to hound him with questions about some
affair. I'm just there to take pictures as he waves, smiles, and states
once again "no comment".
Easy enough.
Joseph "Sparky" Phillips is the wonderful office manager down here and
he's no J. Jonah Jameson, let me tell you. The man couldn't hold still,
he was always moving. That and his short, bulldog appearance made
people think of him kinda like... well, a bulldog. Only, gentle. Thus
the dog nickname, Sparky.
"Hey, Peter," he said to me as I came back from taking all the pictures
the congressman would allow, "can I talk to you for a second?"
"Sure thing, Sparky," I said as I followed him into his office.
"Close the door behind you," he said as he sat down at his desk. I did
and sat across from him.
"What's up?"
"Well, Peter, I'm changing your assignments."
This was unexpected. I mean, it's not like the congressman story was
going anywhere, but they were always in need of embarrassing photos.
"I'm sorry," I said, "am I doing something wrong?"
"No, no, it's not that," Sparky said, leaning back, "it's just that I
have had a story come up that fits you better than anyone else. You've
covered it before, actually, in New York."
Crap.
"Did you know that there have been at least five Spider-Man sightings
in the past week?" asked Sparky, leaning forward again. He was getting
uncomfortable sitting down. "You covered him in New York, got pictures,
hell, spoke with him, right?"
"Yeah," I said with a sigh and leaning back. Why me?
"I want you on that."
"Sparky, isn't there something else, I mean, I pulled the Spider-Man
beat in New York. I came here for a change."
"Peter," said Sparky standing up and moving from around the desk to sit
on the front of it, "this is big. There are no superhero types in
Washington. You only find them in New York or anywhere else, but not
Washington. Spider-Man's here for a reason and I want someone on him
that knows him. You've covered him for a while, I assume you have a
feel for him, probably would have better luck sniffing him out than
anyone else.
"Besides, Jameson specifically said he wanted you on it."
Jameson. No matter what city, the Bugle is still his paper. And as long
as I work for the Bugle, I work for Jameson. I can't escape him, no
matter how much I may want to.
Like so many other things.
I sighed. "Look, I know you want a change, and you'll get it. Just get
us started on this story and I'll try and get someone else on it. But,
until then, I want you to get me pictures and stories of this guy. And
not just sightings, everyone will have those, get me up close and
personal. You're the only one who can do it, Peter, you've done it
before."
Why, why, why, why won't it leave me alone?
I don't want to do the story. To do the story there has to be a story
to write. That means there has to be a Spider-Man to be seen. That
means I have to put it on again.
And I'm trying to hard not to, I really am.
I hate it.
Now more than ever it haunts me.
I nodded.
"Good. I know there's the schedule change since Spider-Man's usually
only moving at night, so I'll give you a couple days to get settled."
"No, no, don't worry about it," I said, waiving Sparky off. "I'll start
tonight."
"Great," said Sparky with a clap of his hands, "good. Go home now and
rest then, you'll be up late tonight. I want a call from you or some
kinda note every morning by 10, unless, of course, we have a story."
"Of course." I stood up and Sparky grabbed my hand and shook it.
"Thanks, Peter."
I just nodded again and left.
Damn costume.
I went into the bathroom down the hall.
Damn Spider-Man.
I went into a stall and closed and locked the door.
I hate you.
And I broke down.
I hate you Peter Parker.
I hate what you've become.
***
"How did I ever lose you, Mary Jane Watson-Parker?"
"You had a choice, Peter Parker..."
***
The webbing fires from under my wrist, grabs the building and pulls me
towards it. I lash out with my other hand, firing webbing across the
street and swinging again.
My arms work without me thinking, this is all instinct now. My mind is
racing through thoughts, where I am, who I am, why I continue to
torture myself.
The anger builds.
My webbing misses and I tumble. I could catch myself, but I don't, I
let myself fall, then, at the last possible moment, I shoot webbing,
grab a building and get pulled diagonally away, swinging into an alley,
high enough to miss the ground, low enough to hit the dumpster.
I feel the hit, I feel the pain as it runs through my body, feel the
ground as I fall to it, and I lie down and start to cry.
I've been doing that too much lately.
***
"...Spider-Man."
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