Authors: Peter David
With this question, at least, Peter felt confident. "Of course I can," he said with utter conviction.
She smiled. Apparently, as far as Aunt May was concerned, if Peter was on solid ground with that aspect of it, everything else would fall into place. "Then you have my blessing," she said, and he hadn't realized until that moment he was actually looking for it. Once she gave it, though, it felt right. It felt good. "And," she said, "I hope you've considered a proper proposal." Again she looked at her engagement ring, reminiscing, and when she spoke, she could have been describing something that had transpired just yesterday. "Uncle Ben had it all planned. We went for a walk, and he laid me down under a juniper tree, and he said…"
She paused, then deepened her voice to sound like Ben's. "Close your eyes and make a wish." She chuckled and continued, "And I did. And he said, 'Open them,' and I did. And he was holding this ring."
It wasn't especially large. Quite the opposite, actually. Then again, May Parker was never the showiest of women and would have considered a large, gleaming rock too gaudy. Plus, that it was given to her by Ben probably made it huge in her eyes. "This ring, dazzling, in front of me. I thought it was the sun." She looked at it with a trace of sadness. "We'd be married fifty years come August if… if someone hadn't been…" Her voice dropped, and in a husky tone, clearly trying to compose herself, she sighed, "Oh, God," as if annoyed with her own weakness. She clenched her hand into a fist, then let out a soft sigh like a cleansing breath. "So," she said, "make it very special for that lovely girl. Do something she'll never forget." She hesitated only for an instant, then she pulled the engagement ring from her finger and held it out to Peter. "And give her this."
Peter was stunned by the generosity. His instinct was to protest, to say that he couldn't. How could he possibly take one of her fondest memories of Uncle Ben? Then he realized that, with or without the ring on her finger, the memory would remain intact. Furthermore, if Peter had learned one thing in his life, it was never to argue with May Parker when she had a particular determined look on her face—as she did now.
Giving in to the inevitable, he took the ring from her with great care and in a hushed tone said, "Thank you, Aunt May."
She nodded once, the deal sealed, and then her eyes sagged slightly. She pulled herself back from fatigue and said, "It's late. You better go on home."
Peter gathered up his things as May cleared the china from the kitchen table.
As he headed for the front door, Peter's gaze fell upon the old, small upright piano on the near wall. He remembered with great amusement all the times that, in his youth, Aunt May had sat with him and forced him to practice. She had disdained the need for a piano teacher. "Why spend good money to have someone teach him something that I already know," she had sniffed whenever Ben had suggested someone else be brought in to show Peter the ropes. Peter had come to despise the instrument, far preferring to stay up in his room and read his books since he knew he was good at that. Now, though, as an adult, he had come to appreciate May's intentions in widening his horizons.
As a gesture of appreciation, he slid onto the piano bench, sat with his fingers poised over the keys, called up the strains of Debussy's "Clair de Lune" from those long-ago lessons, and started to play.
It was… uninspiring.
Frighteningly enough, Peter remembered "Clair de Lune" as one of his stronger pieces, so he shuddered to think what the
William Tell
overture must have sounded like to adult ears. As it was, he stumbled through the first few bars as best he could. Aunt May kept a smile plastered on her face, but he could see her eyes wincing with every misplayed note, of which there were more than a few.
Peter's musical effort was mercifully cut short by an irritated banging on the floor from the poor devil living underneath, who didn't apparently feel like being serenaded, badly, at whatever time in the morning
it
was. Pulling his hands away from the keyboard as if
it
had caught fire, Peter said in a lame attempt at self-defense, "Needs tuning."
Aunt May grinned as she held the door open for him. Peter pulled his helmet on and she patted him on the arm as he passed. "After you're married, feel free to visit me. Only come a little earlier."
He hugged his beloved aunt, the woman who had raised him, and headed out the door, feeling far lighter in spirit than he had in weeks.
The feeling stayed with him all the way back to his Manhattan apartment. Although naturally he was paying attention to the road the entire ride, he was still unaware of the passage of time. His mind was awhirl with images of Mary Jane accepting his proposal, of their marriage, honeymooning, having children, growing old together. He savored every one.
Life was good.
Almost too good
, his ever-sour subconscious warned him, bur he dismissed that sort of thinking. As he pulled his bike up to his apartment building, killing the motor, he decided that he was going to embrace the power of positive thinking. Perhaps things went wrong because he expected the worst-case scenario at any moment. He had even temporarily lost his powers because of his uncertainty and lack of desire to live up to his responsibilities. There was no reason that he couldn't shape his life to be as positive as he wanted it to be simply by being determined to make it happen.
He stepped off the bike, removed his helmet, and checked his watch. Four in the morning. He didn't feel at all tired. Perhaps he should do some webswinging to…
Nah. How about something normal for once? Drink a glass of milk, watch TV, or read a book until your eyes get heavy. Something like that. You've been prioritizing Peter Parker's life for once, and that's been going pretty well for you. Smartest thing would be to keep doing exactly what you're doing, and not switch over to Spider-M
—
His spider-sense went off.
He acted completely on instinct, as he always did in such matters. He leaped toward the building, figuring to hit the wall and scurry up it, buy a few precious seconds, get a clearer idea of what was happening and where it was coming from.
It was one of the rare instances when his instincts betrayed him.
Airborne as he was, he had no protection, no recourse, as something slammed into him. The ground spun away from Peter with dizzying speed as he arced upward, heading toward the stars that he had been admiring from a distance only a few hours before.
He twisted around, trying to see who or what had grabbed him. He heard the high-pitched whine of a powerful engine and suddenly found himself staring—not into a person's face—but into a demented-looking, and hi-tech almost familiar mask, covering the lower part of his attacker's head.
The Goblin?! The Green Goblin! But he's dead! I saw him die! Am I dreaming? Did I fall asleep? Am I still in the web hammock with MJ and I drifted off? This can't
—
The buildings were a blur beneath him as Peter, an unwilling passenger, continued to angle sharply upward. This "New Goblin" grabbed Peter by the hair, yanking his head back. Peter gasped, trying to comprehend what was happening, with the sharp pain and the stinging feel of the wind in his face reinforcing that this was no dream. The New Goblin drew his free arm back, ready to strike, and fearsome blades sprouted from the wrist of his armor. Peter tried to pull away, but he had no leverage. Snagged as he was, immobilized as he was, Peter couldn't offer more than token resistance as the blades sliced across his chest. It shredded his shirt, raising a thin line of blood, and he cried out in agony. If he hadn't managed to pull back even the marginal amount that he had, it would have ripped open his torso.
The Goblin repositioned himself and tried to bring the blades around again, but the pain galvanized Peter. He snagged the Goblin's arm, strength against strength, holding the lethal weapon at bay. The Goblin was cackling dementedly, but there was a slight hesitation, the briefest uncertainty. Grabbing the opportunity to do some damage, Peter swung his foot up and kicked the Goblin hard in the chest. The Goblin lost his grip on Peter's hair, although Peter was certain he felt some strands pulling loose from his scalp.
Peter twisted clear and flipped himself over the Goblin's head. He let himself go into free fall just to get some distance. He afforded a fast glance behind him and saw that the Goblin was astride a different vehicle than he had been the last time. It wasn't a bat-winged glider, but instead something that looked more like a supercharged hi-tech snowboard. The armor was also different, far more minimal… a few pieces slapped together.
Peter kept his arms and legs straight and dove like a parachutist. The ground spun below him, but he'd been in far more dizzying circumstances than this. In fact, the effect was almost calming, the first chance he'd had to compose his thoughts since this unwarranted, insane attack had begun.
Obviously, whoever his assailant was, this new Goblin knew that Peter was Spider-Man. His secret identity was blown. At the moment, though, his biggest worry was not to get killed; everything else could just wait.
Believing he'd managed to put enough distance between him and his attacker, Peter fired a webline and snagged a nearby building. He started to swing toward it, then his heart fell as he saw the Goblin swoop down near the adhesion point of the webbing to the building. Then the rest of him fell along with his heart as the Goblin sliced through the webbing with one fast flick of his blades. Cut loose from his momentary salvation, Peter started to fall again, tumbling out of control. Knowing that the Goblin could keep repeating that trick—that he could follow Peter all the way down, cutting through weblines until Peter was out of building and out of time—he didn't have any other choices and so brought his arm up to fire yet another webline.
He didn't even get the shot off. His spider-sense warned him, but he couldn't do a damned thing about it as the Goblin slammed into him, sending him tumbling literally heels over head and crashing into the side of a nearby skyscraper.
If it had at least been glass, Peter could have smashed through it and perhaps escaped to the inside. No such luck—instead he impacted with solid brick and mortar, embedding the left side of his body in the side of the building. Peter knew he could pull free, but it was going to take him a few moments to extricate himself.
The Goblin soared down toward him, and Peter wondered if he was going to have even those precious few seconds. If the Goblin came in hurtling a pumpkin grenade or swinging his blades or…
But he didn't. The Goblin slowed and then stopped, hovering nearby. The move surprised Peter. The Goblin had him cold, but he wasn't pressing the advantage? Why? Did he want to toy with him? Convinced that Peter couldn't get away, was he determined to make Peter suffer? Or was it that he was reluctant to make the final move
because
it seemed Peter was a goner? If it was the latter… if the Goblin was conflicted…
It couldn't be…
Of course, it had to be. There was no one else…
As if intuiting what was going through Peter's mind, the Goblin touched some sort of mechanism in the palm of his gloved hand. The mask slid back, and the coldly furious face of Harry Osborn glared at him.
"Harry?" Peter whispered. Inwardly he wasn't surprised. He'd figured it out. Knowing it, however, wasn't the same as being confronted by the harsh reality.
"You knew this was coming, Pete." The friendly nickname sounded like an obscenity on his lips.
Harry abruptly angled the "Sky Stick" forward, slamming his fist at Peter in one rapid motion. Peter barely managed to yank his arm clear. He heard and felt a tearing of cloth, and part of his jacket sleeve was left behind, but better ripped clothing than a shattered face. Leaping aside, Peter just avoided Harry's punch, which smashed brick and crumbled some of the mortar to dust. Peter, landing on another section of the wall some feet away, gaped at the destruction.
Whatever Norman Osborn had done to himself to acquire accelerated strength, Harry had clearly done it as well. And the action had muddled Harry's mind just as it had Norman's.
Or… perhaps not. It might have been wishful thinking, but it still seemed to Peter as if Harry was moving slowly, hesitating at key moments, reluctant to deliver a final, lethal blow. Holding out a slender thread of hope that his erstwhile friend could be reasoned with, Peter called out to him, "He was trying to kill me! He killed himself!"
"Shut up!"
Harry shoved his hands into the section of the broken wall that Peter was still perched upon and ripped it clear of the building. Peter went flying, his arms pinwheeling, his jacket flapping wide…
Aunt May's engagement ring flew out of his pocket.
It was the merest luck that his peripheral vision noticed it, glinting in the night. He twisted around in midair, grasping at it. Ironically, it was the only thing that saved him, because Harry dive-bombed right where Peter would have been had he been trying to get back to the wall. But Peter was moving in a completely different direction, toward the tumbling ring, and so Harry missed him clean.
Peter desperately fired a webline at the diamond ring. As accurate as he typically was, because both he and the ring were falling and it was so small a target, the webline whizzed a fraction of an inch to the side of the ring.
Don't take your eyes off it! Don't
—
As if he were swimming through air, Peter lunged toward the ring, oblivious to all else.
This time it cost him.
Harry sped down toward him and sideswiped him hard. Peter was knocked violently to one side. He was completely disoriented, with no idea which way was up or down. A dozen different tactics ran through his brain like a computer sucking down data, and none of them seemed as if it would work. Despair seized him, and then he slammed into another building. His arm went out instinctively to break the fall; even then it only partly shielded his head. He cracked his skull and was positive that he could actually hear his brain sloshing around inside his cranium. Blackness started to envelop him.