Vol. 2 #2 - Same Old, Same Old....
"Goblin Apocalypse"

By Thomas Deja

One Year Earlier

Lorenzo Franco was blessed with a beautiful name, a gift of first generation immigrants from South America who were excited by the fact that their son was an American. It was the kid of name that belonged on a European film star, or an opera singer. And Lorenzo Franco had the looks to go with the name, dark eyes and darker hair and full, sensual lips.

Unfortunately, Lorenzo Franco didn’t have the life that either his name or looks implied he should have. Ever since dropping out of college, he found himself outside of Niagra Falls--as far north as you can get in New York without finding yourself in Canada--wearing an ill-fitted security guard uniform and patrolling one of the creepiest places he’d ever been in.

The Sequoia Life Studies Center paid him very well to wander their septic, pale blue halls. They paid him very well, Lorenzo suspected, because they knew that only a big check could keep him strolling the corridors after hours knowing that on either side of him were a number of dead people.

Frozen dead people.

The guys in charge of Sequoia Life tried to tell their clients that the frozen people were in a state of ‘suspended animation,’ that there would be hope that these bodies would live again once a cure was found for the various ailments which killed them. Lorenzo knew better; dead was dead, and no amount of science was going to bring these stiffs back--especially the ones who could only afford to have their heads preserved....

On the last night of Lorenzo’s life, he was responding to some noises he heard coming from what he and the other guards referred to as ‘The bowling alley,’ the room where the heads were kept, four high, in thin aisles that one man could barely get through. Immediately upon entering, Lorenzo was struck by the stench, an overpowering smell like wet fur and puss. His right hand involuntarily went to his nose and mouth, covering them. He pinch his nostrils shut with thumb and forefinger and called out, “Whoever’s in here, come out with your hands up!”

To his right, he heard what sounded like someone fighting their way through an aisle. In a moment, a figure stepped out, hands up as directed. In his left hand, held by hooking the index and middle finger in the nostrils, the figure had a head. Wires dangled from its bald pate, and it still dripped the liquid coolant it was immersed in.

“Don’t shoot, now,” the figure said in a high-pitched voice that seemed to be fighting back giggles. With the lights off, it was hard to make out the intruder‘s features. “I was just looking to...get a head.”

Lorenzo groaned. “Come closer so I can see you--and keep your hands up.”

“Oh, I will,” the figure promised as it moved closer.

When it stepped into Lorenzo Franco’s flashlight beam, the security guard gasped. The figure grinned, its jaw holding one too many teeth.

“I make no promises for Jack, though,” the figure added, red-rimmed eyes dancing with mirth.

The last sight Lorenzo Franco saw as the creature behind him tore open his hamstrings with too-sharp teeth and proceeded to kill him, was the figure clapping in joy, its lengthy claws clacking like castanets.

Peter looked up at the line of lights above the elevator doors. He secretly wishes that his ascent would go slower.

The fact was, he was still ambivalent about taking this meeting with Thomas Fireheart, the man who he fought and fought besides a number of times before. Fireheart had a twisted idea that he owed Spider-Man something and went about doing it by, among other things, buying out the Daily Bugle and press-ganging the paper into doing pro-Spidey propaganda. And now, after an extended absence, the man was back in his life competing against J.J.J.’s paper...and looking to woo him for some reason.

The elevator stopped. Peter took a deep breath in the moment before the doors opened. When he stepped onto the deep brown carpet and looked around the lobby of Anasazi Books, he became self-conscious. The tasteful smoked glass and cherrywood desk, the triple monitors showing the muted output of the three major networks, the impeccably dressed, impossibly beautiful woman with the headset and the stylishly coiffed long black hair all spoke of a class operation. There were none of the seams and pits and scars of the Bugle offices--pits and scars that survived numerous renovations--that made it a living office.

The sudden urge to put on his glasses and the long-ago sweater vest overwhelmed him.

Peter stepped forward toward the woman. As he got closer, he noticed she had the skin color that marked her as a Native American; he wondered if she was another member of Fireheart’s tribe, sent to college with funds earned by his mercenary work as The Puma.

“Excuse me, I’m--”

Without looking up, the woman said, “Good morning, Mr. Parker. I’ll notify Mr. Fireheart you’re here.”

Peter blinked in surprise. “You...you know who I am?”

For a split second, the woman looked up and smiled generically. “Mr. Fireheart likes his employees to be knowledgeable about everything that concerns the company, and that includes knowing who Mr. Fireheart is trying to recruit. Please take a seat. He’ll be right with you.

As Peter headed for the plush, leather-upholstered chairs, he found himself unconsciously feeling around for glasses he long ago abandoned.

He looked out his penthouse window onto the jagged landscape of skyscrapers, office buildings and condominiums that made up Midtown Manhattan. It was early morning; across the river, his employees--his serfs, to be fair--were just now reporting for the day. He pictured them placing their hands on the genetic scanner and waiting for the moment when the automated security system gave them the okay to enter. With a wave of his hand, he knew that the person being clocked in right now could be cut adrift from his empire and left to fend for themselves.

It made Norman Osborn smile.

Granted, it was a smile that was without warmth or any trace of humanity. It was the sort of smile one would imagine a serpent would grace its prey before swallowing it whole. But it was a smile nonetheless.

He turned away from window and prepared to dress for the day. A recording of the Metropolitan Opera’s rendition of Rigeletto was wafting through the house thanks to a complex series of speakers, the music itself maintained at a polite level. Norman hummed a snatch of an aria to himself and reached for the glass of orange juice provided for him by his maid.

...and the window shattered.

...and the trio or orange globes, their outer casing scalloped to resemble pumpkins, bounced along the floor to stop at Norman’s feet.

...and for a split second Norman questioned himself--surely he was here enjoying some orange juice and not flying the city...

...and then he heard the beeping of the globes, which seemed rather...urgent...in its dissonance.

Norman dropped his glass and launched himself across the room, muscles enhanced by a formula long destroyed giving him enough power to clear the couch, the wingback chair and the small endtable between him and his goal. He rolled roughly to a stop at the wall nearest the staircase leading the master bedroom. He slapped a panel in the wall with an open palm hard enough to splinter the wood around it, causing a latch to open up a largish panel hinged not unlike a doggie door. Norman scrambled through it and closed the door with a small nob on the other side just as the three globes exploded.

He slammed himself flush against the far wall of the secret compartment--what his mother called a ‘priest hole’ when he was a child--just as the entrance panel buckled and splintered. Acrid smoke seeped through the cracks, and once again he wondered if he was here or out and about as The Goblin.

Surely, he asked himself, I’m not crazy...Parker would believe that, but you would know if you believed yourself in two places at once.

And in that seconds, his eyes narrowed...a mystery seems to have provided its own solution.

Thomas Firehart shook Peter’s hand warmly. He had to remind himself that the man smiling at him tried to kill him a number of times when he operated as The Puma. “Mr. Parker, it’s good to see you. Why don’t you come back to my office?”

Peter followed the towering Amerind man whose suit was designed to expertly show off his fine physique. Firehart led him past the receptionist into the office floor. The moment the door closed behind them, the chatter of the television and the electronic beep of the phone was stifled. They passed cubicles made of smoked glass and stain darkened wood where people worked by themselves, oblivious to their passing.

Eventually, they reached a large office at the corner. Firehart opened the door for him, and Peter was sturck by the surrealness of the moment.

“Step on in and make yourself comfortable.”

Uh, okay,” Peter replied. “This is a little odd.” He stepped into a space larger than any one of the rooms in his apartment. Four television screens were embedded in a wall in such a way that one could always be viewed no matter where you were in the room. The desk was stained a deep red and had to be impossibly old; amongst all the usual executive paraphenalia was a Kachina doll. A dreamcatcher made of the same orange feathers that used to adorn the Puma’s hair was hung from the ceiling, twirling lazily. Placed nearest the window was a small table obviously made from the same wood as that of the desk and four chairs. Peter lowered himself into the big leather chair before the desk and felt like a little child; the seat’s back was so large and overstuffed, he was conscious it made him look like the teenager he was before he was gifted with the powers of the spider.

“So, Peter,” Firehart said as he settled in. “I’m not sure if you are aware of this, but during my time as CEO of the Bugle, I was very impressed with your work.”

“I, uh, wasn’t, and thank you.”

The Amerind investor looked at Peter with steely eyes; for a moment the man looked like the mercenary that he faced down as Spider Man a number of time. “While that was, quite honestly, a disaster for me, it did give me a taste for this sort of thing, Peter...and part of that taste comes from recognizing talent and giving them an opportunity for that talent to thrive.”

This, Peter thought to himself, is surreal. Any minute now Ron Jeremy will enter the office and say Gary Coleman’s waiting to take us to the pancake house. Once more he reminded himself of the number of times he faced off when Firehart was the mercenary Puma. He cleared his throat and said, “So, I’m guessing you’re interested in me?”

“Certainly.” Firehart templed his fingers. “I took the liberty of finding a copy of Webs and looking through it. You’ve a real gift for action photography, Peter, especially in the realm of metahuman affairs. You show a talent for capturing that moment, that discreet second in a superhero fight that defines the nature of the story. It’s a shame that it’s been hindered by only getting exposure in the Bugle.”

“Well, Mr. Firehart,” Peter said through gritted teeth. “Mr. Jameson has been very loyal to me, and I feel obligated--”

“I know all about loyalties,” Firehart replied. “And I understand to an extent. But I want to know what it would take to have you come to Commute NY as its official metahuman photojournalist.”

The man’s name was Gerard. He was the latest in a long line of right hand men Norman Osborn had cultivated himself, handpicking him from the ranks due to a certain ruthlessness in his nature and training him so he could manage everything--both Oscorp and the criminal dealings Norman kept his hand in. Gerard was dark haired and darker eyed, and wore prescription glasses that distorted his eyes. The truth was that the features of these peons tended to blend together in his head, and he even found it difficult to remember their names.

Which made the fact that Norman remembered the location of every unmarked grave he had them buried in all the more surprising.

“The contractors will be arriving by end of day,” Gerard was telling him, “and they have been informed of the incentive we will present them if they act swiftly.”

“Good, good,” Norman said absently with a wave of his hand. He paced the floor of his office furiously. “I want this lunatic found. I want him found, I want to know where he lives, where his family lives, where his children go to school.”

“Certainly, sir.” Gerard made a notation with his fountain pen.

“And I want the word put out through my...private contacts...that I need some assistance in dealing with the problem.”

“I am already on it, sir,” Gerald informed him in as soothing a tone as possible. “Although, I have heard rumors that many of the freelancers we would normally use for an assignment like this are tied up elsewhere.”

Norman looked up, anger flashing in his red-rimmed eyes. “Elsewhere? What do you mean by elsewhere?”

“Thank you for coming. If you’ll please open your portfolios to the red section, we will begin.”

The sound of fingers rifling through pages filled the room. The man at the podium absently reached out and touched the cold, hard chest of his father....an action that caused him some comfort.

When everyone was on the same page, the man cleared his throat. “Volume Two was conceived by the British Espionage Organization called Black Air in the late 80’s. It was termed a ‘psychological virus’ by its creator and was covertly instituted three years prior to the organization’s apparent destruction during the chaos in London that occurred parallel to the Onslaught crisis.

“This psychological virus was implanted in some two thousand sleeper agents, which were then distributed across the globe. When activated, the virus will reprogram the agent’s genome, maximizing its physical potential while destroying the adrenal regulator and creating a new psychological profile. Said profile will spur the agent to become an indiscriminate killing machine. The plan was to activate Volume Two if there was a need to destabilize a nation or throw a target into chaos and confusion.

“My father,” he said, taking a moment to motion toward his beloved patriarch, “was instrumental in fashioning the virus, and in creating a protocol which would trigger agent’s movements toward a targeted area. The information in this presentation is primarily derived from his notes.

“Unfortunately, in the wake of Black Air’s destabilization, the trigger for these protocols was lost. The best intelligence we have was that the trigger was lost here in the New York area when a rogue cell of Black Air was destroyed after an attempted operation against the X-Men.

“I am a very, very rich man. I wish to recover Volume Two, and I am capable of reimbursing the agent who finds the trigger for me. In some of your cases, I am more than willing to supplement the financial remuneration with other forms of assistance, including technological enhancements--I have been led to believe that this is something your kind is in desperate need of in the wake of Justin Hammer’s unfortunate murder.

“Please read the presentation thoroughly. This is an open contract; there is no need to provide me with a bid. I will be available in Suite 514 for the next ninety minutes for one-on-one consultations; please be considerate of your fellow freelancers and confine these consults to fifteen minutes at the most. Thank you.”

He took one last look at his father, then left the podium. And a number of eyes, not all of them human, took in what he knew.

Peter did his best to hide his surprise, but suspected he wasn’t doing a good job. “Official...?”

“Yes,” Firehart confirmed. “You’d be drawing a weekly salary with full benefits--something I’m sure must be of interest now that you’ve had your first child. We’d require a weekly minimum in terms of photos, but you and I can best determine your output. If you’ve ever fantasized about writing, we could certainly give you a column--”

Peter held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa...” He waited until Firehart settled down and added, “As...colorful as Mr. Jameson is, he and I have a very long relationship. I’m comfortable, and he has made attempts to challenge me. While some of what you’re offering I would love to consider, I feel I have to show a little loyalty to a man who hired me when I was a kid and always kept me employed as long as I needed it.”

Thomas Firehart sat back. “I can’t say I don’t find your loyalty admirable...and, interpersonal problems to the contrary, Mr. Jameson is a great journalist. But if you’re not interested in coming on board...I may have another peoposal for you.”

Mary Jane Watson adjusted the microphone on her headset and jiggled little May over her shoulder. The baby took a second through its quiet crying to gurgle. For a moment, she worried that the face cloth she placed on her shoulder would slip and she’d have a t-shirt full of baby spit-up.

“Paolo, I’m grateful for the offer,” she told him as she gently patted May on the back. “But with the baby, I really can’t accept assignments that take me away from the city for any length of time.”

On the other end of the line, Mary Jane heard Paolo sigh. May let loose with a burp and gurgled in satisfaction at her effort. The noise seemed loud in her head, which made Mary Jane smile; apparently, little May had her father’s lungs.

“MJ, dearie, I understand. But you know how it is--if you keep turning assignments down, they’ll stop asking for you.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Mary Jane said--and winced immediately. Please don’t tell me I’m turning into the type of wife I hate, she thought before adding, “But this is important to me. Peter and I...well, we almost lost the baby and--”

“I know, I know,” Paolo cut her off and sighed. Mary Jane padded over from the kitchen to the living room. May had stopped crying and was now squirming happily in her arms. She felt a slight hitch in her chest--she had been dreading her agent giving her The Sentence She Did Not Want To Hear....

“Look, let me give it some thought,” Paolo finally said. “You helped make this agency, MJ. I want you to still be a part of it. But I need to think about how you’ll be able to contribute.”

The hitch had grown into a full-blown ache. What Paolo said wasn’t The Sentence, but it wasn’t something all together happy, either.

“Okay, Paolo. I’ll be in all day.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch. TTFN.”

As she heard Paolo disconnect, Mary Jane began to feel afraid for something other than her husband.

As he made his way back to his home, Peter fouind that his head was in the clouds as much as the rest of his body. This was unusual; when he did his webslinging, it usually helped him clear his mind and helped him work out problems. But what Thomas Firehart proposed....

He was aware of the envelope that was flush against his ribs. He had told Firehart that he couldn’t give him an answer until he talked about things with his wife. And though Peter certainly was excited by the prospect of what Firehart had laid out, he needed Mary Jane’s approval, her participation on every level.

He glanced over his shoulder on the upswing to look at himself in the polished glass of the nearest skyscraper. He didn’t look any different--okay, maybe a tad bit beefier from when he started being Spider-Man. But he had changed, hadn’t he? He had brought life into this world, a life that he was responsible for...and who was he--

“Whoa!”

It was a testament to how deep in thought he was that he didn’t notice the sound of helicopter rotors approaching.

He cut himself free from his webline at its apogee, adding extra muscle power to propel him up and over the blades. A very surprised looking man with a bad comb over and an ill-fitting suit followed Peter as he floated over the blades. His arm shot out and a webline flashed out, affixing itself to a cornice of a condominium across the way. Peter’s body twisted quickly in space in an effort to guide it away from the copter without feeding himself to the device’s blades.

“Sorry about that!” he called out to the man with a wave. “I’ll be more careful next time!”

The man in the copter slowly raised his hand and waved back. He seemed in shock.

Peter was two blocks away when he noticed the cold breeze getting into his suit. It seems that his close shave was closer than he thought. He silently thanked the lord that the blade only nicked his costume and not his flesh and sped on his way home.

“Our boy did well.”

He stumbled as he stalked forward, still unfamiliar with the legs of his new body. “I question that--all we sent him to do was throw some bombs through a window.”

“Well, you know how children are, Doctor. They have to crawl before they can walk...isn’t that right, Jack?”

The weird dwarf creature his ally always had with him nodded vigorously. He took another few steps forward only to have the harnass collapse under him.

“Mother of GOD, I can’t get the hang of this!”

“Practice, Doctor, practice,” his ally assured him as he examined one of the number of tubes filled with a greenish-gray fluid. “You’ll get the hang of it with time. After all, your expertise is robotics, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see why you had to jury-rig this Goldbergian contraption,” he snapped as he slowly--one stalk at a time--pulled himself up. “You said you could grow me a new body--”

“But growing bodies take time, Doctor,” he assured him, his toothy grin gleaming in the overhead lights. “And I need to assure that the body I’ll grow you won’t reject your head--which, given how decay had set in during that time you played sno-cone, is a serious possibility. It’s remarkable I was able to salvage him as well as I did, isn’t it, Jack?”

The dwarf nodded vigorously. The creature was beginning to get on his nerves.

“So what do you propose our next move should be?” he asked.

“I thought that would be obvious, Doctor,” his ally replied. “We start taking away all Normie’s toys...we torture him with the knowledge of what he did to you, and to Parker, and to dear, sweet Gwen...”

His ally started giggling. “And then we take his life.”

Mary Jane had walked in moments after he crawled in through the skylight. He had already shucked off his costume and was slipping into his bathrobe. She slipped her arms around him waist and drew her close, kissing him lightly.

As he pulled away, Peter smiled. “Hello to you, too. Where’s May?”

“She’s sleeping off her afternoon baba,” MJ answered. “So how did it go?”

“Could be interesting. First, he wanted me to become their new official metahuman photojournalist. I told him no, of course.”

Mary Jane’s emerald eyes seemed to flash with a hint of anger. Her lips turned down into an admonishing frown. “Peter--”

“Look, before I can do anything, I owe it to JJ to talk to him,” Peter countered. He drew her closer and once again allowed the utter peace and comfort he felt in Mary Jane’s arms wash over him. “Besides, he had another offer...one I might want to take, if you’re good with it.”

The stern look on her face hadn’t gone away. “What sort of offer?”

“A book deal,” Peter said, unable to stop from smiling as the words escaped his lips. “A really big book deal for a second book of my photos. With really big royalties and a really big advance with really big zeros.”

And as Peter Parker explained more about the contract in his pocket, neither he nor his wife was aware of the note pinned to their apartment door, a note tri-folded and decorated with an old-style wax signet.

A note written in a very familiar hand.

A note that said simply, If you are playing a joke on me, your child will suffer.

A note signed by Norman Osborn.

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