Ambush

Gwen leaned her chin on her hand and looked at Peter fondly. In her other hand, she slowly spun the chain her locket depended from. "Hey, hot shot photographer," she said. "What about giving me a picture already?"

"I thought you wanted to keep the locket empty so you could remember all our good times together," Peter grinned, leaning back in his chair.

"Maybe now I have something to remember," she said. "It's been a good time tonight, Peter."

"Aw shucks," he said. "Gonna make me blush." He went for the mock-bashful look.

"Yeah, aw shucks," Gwen said, covering a smile with her hand. "So tell me, Mister Parker. What's a girl gotta do to meet the famous Aunt May? MJ got to meet her right off the bat."

"Hey, all the requirements are met by you, pretty lady," Peter said. "Maybe we can arrange something that doesn't involve you barging into my room and scolding me when I'm sick."

"I am many things, Peter," Gwen said. "I am not pushy."

"Good thing you're persistent though," Peter said, his eyes merry.

"Entirely different story," she sniffed.

"Hey, let's get out of here. I'll take you home."

"Sounds good," Gwen said. She stood and stretched, and Peter was distracted for a moment, whatever he was about to say slipping out of his mind and entirely replaced.

"God you're gorgeous," Peter said.

Her cheeks turned pink, and she turned to pick up her coat. "You are shameless," she said, but there was a glow of pleasure in her voice.

"I have to be," Peter shrugged. He moved to help her with her coat. "Otherwise I'd just curl up in my room and re-live my embarrassments. Brr." He shuddered.

They had paid for dinner half an hour ago, so it was a simple enough matter to walk out of the restaurant and into the blustery night. It was not deeply chilly, but the wind whipped along the streets, howling and moaning in the steel and concrete city like a mournful beast, lost and hunting.

Peter sniffed the air. Felt his blood quicken, his muscles relax, his senses awaken. What a night. What a fine night for flying.

"On a night like this," he said, "I feel like I can let the wind carry me anywhere in the city. Seems a shame to take a car ride when you can fly."

"Well, that makes one of us," she said a bit archly. "I have to get home somehow, and I'd feel indelicate flying with this skirt on. By the way, you're deflecting me."

"Deflecting?" he said, puzzled for a moment.

"Dinner, your house, Aunt May, sound familiar?" she said.

"Ah. That persistence you mentioned," Peter said. "Well, seeing as how today is Sunday, April 6, and the beginning of Spring Break at school, I'm pretty available. When do you want to get together?"

"Thursday's good for me," she said. "I may not have classes, but I'm working and I have some extra-curricular activities that I'm committed to. Flash is having a party, has MJ reached you yet on that? And—Peter? Are, uh, you okay?"

He stood rigid and alert, his eyes bright and focused, his posture unnatural. It seemed like he was listening, sensing, sifting the wind. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. "Peter?" she asked, her voice small.

"Ever feel like you're being watched?" he asked, his head slowly turning, as though he was studying something she could not see.

"Peter, this is creepy," she said.

He blinked, and looked at her, and smiled. "Yeah, sorry about that. Uh, Thursday. Thursday is fine. Five o'clock sound good?"

"Sure," she said. She took his arm and snuggled up against him as they walked. "Thanks for a great evening."

"It's the least I could do," he said. "The very least."

They reached his battered old car. "Well, here we are," he said. He opened her door first, then went around to his as she settled in. He opened the door and stopped short.

On his seat was a plastic Halloween spider ring.

The spider's head had been melted off.

Peter picked it up, and looked quickly around. He couldn't see anyone, but he felt... a presence...

"Peter?" Gwen said.

"Yeah," he said shortly, and he slung down into the car. "Yeah. Sorry, I'm a bit distracted. Okay, taking you home. I'd love to stick around, but I'm bushed, it's been a long day, and I've got some things around the house I told Aunt May I'd do," his eyes roving the buildings, hunting, searching, he left his mouth running while his other talents kicked into overdrive, "so if it's all the same I'll just give you a call tomorrow, will that work—"

"Peter," she said, a slight quaver in her voice, "you're scaring me."

Something in him closed, and he looked over at her, the Peter Parker she knew. "Sorry, Gwen. Don't know what came over me." He flashed a smile at her that she uncertainly returned.

xXx

He rolled out of bed and stretched. First week day of Spring Break. He glanced over at his alarm clock. It's display was filmy and dim, and it was stuck up against the back of the shelf. "Note to self," he muttered. "Must stop shooting web at alarm clock before I wake up." He shuffled into the bathroom.

"Stupid spider senses never miss it," he grumbled. "Bring bring bring spizz fwap, every morning. Must be a timex." He cupped his hand and breathed into it and sniffed. "Gads," he muttered. His breath was acrid, bitter, steaming. "Woo. No more pre-bed coffee for me."

He brushed his teeth and combed his hair at the same time. Spit and rinse. He sniffed his breath again.

Reek.

"Come on," he muttered. He flossed, brushed again, and used mouthwash. Then he went and got dressed, checking the time. Nine a.m. Still three hours before he was supposed to meet Mr. Ramsey for lunch at Morano's Pizza. Time to develop some film.

He hopped into his new dockers and pulled one of his new shirts out of the closet. "Ah, WalMart, how I love thee," he grinned, adjusting himself. He put on his most comfortable loafers and picked up his camera bag. Sniffed his breath.

"For crying out loud," he muttered. He had no time for further breath adjustment.

"Bye Aunt May," he called over his shoulder as he was through the door.

"Oh, Peter!" she called from the kitchen. She poked her head out of the kitchen, but he was gone and the door was shut.

She sighed and wrote him a note.

xXx

Peter poked his head around the corner and looked into the dim booth at the back of the restaurant. "This is cozy," he said.

"I don't do crowds," said the blond man in the booth, his voice quiet. "Please take a seat, Mr. Parker."

Peter slid to a halt in the booth. "Mister Ramsey," he said, extending his hand. "Glad to meet you."

"Just call me Doug," the young man across from him smiled distractedly, his dark eyes blue and his flaxen hair pulled back. He clasped his hand briefly. "Doctor Strange has nothing but praise for your work."

"Really?" Peter said. "Good deal. I've only done one assignment for your magazine so far."

"Here's your chance for another one," Doug said. "First, what do you like on your pizza?"

"Whatever," Peter shrugged.

"Right," said Doug. He flagged down the waitress. "Supreme. Everything but what you find on the floor," he said. She smiled at him and headed for the kitchen.

"Now," Doug said. "The issue we're collecting material on now has the theme 'Things That Eat People' so if you can get some good shots we'll buy 'em. So far we've come up with," he leaned back in his chair, ticking off topics on his fingers, "bacteria, cannibals, cancer, sharks, and age."

Peter grinned. "Never seen something that eats more people than the subway. At least it spits them back out without chewing."

"Hey, you know, that's good. Doc'll go for it." Doug blinked, then slid his pager out of its housing with a practiced motion. He read it over. "Gotta check on this. Sit tight," he said. He stood and headed for the phones in the back of the restaurant.

Peter leaned back against the booth's cushions and sighed, running his hands through his hair. He felt seconds tick in his pulse and he checked the time; ten after twelve. His senses were immediately bored and started running around like spoiled children; he took in the worls of the fake wood veneer on the table, the rough wood on the walls that made the place "rustic," the cook grumbling to the waitress—

The door to the restaurant closed and a sudden hush fell across those in the front area. Peter's senses spun into overdrive. He heard heavy boots taking slow deliberate strides towards him. He moved to peek out when a figure swept into view. Peter looked up.

The man was tall, and broad, built like a heavyweight boxer. His clothes were dark, and his coat swept the edge of the table as he turned to face Peter. His forehead was high and wide, his cheekbones aristocratic. Dark hair was combed back away from his face, out of the way. His eyes were deep set and brooding. His square jaw had a dark trim beard peppered with white, and as he bared his teeth at Peter in what could be a smile they seemed square, bright, strong, sharp.

"Spider ghost," the man intoned, his voice deep and solid, "I will hunt you, creature. Be ready." For a moment that seemed like forever, they made eye contact and each took the measure of the other. Then, before Peter came to grips with the situation, the huge man spun on his heel and strode out.

Peter blinked.

Then he vaulted out of the booth and shook off whatever hypnotic effect those eyes had. He dashed to the front of the restaurant and bashed open the door, springing out onto the sidewalk and glancing around.

Predictably enough, the man was gone. Traffic bustled, pedestrians threaded their way around each other, and open businesses all around provided an environment that quickly made the dark stranger untraceable. Warily, Peter backed into the restaurant and headed for the back booth.

"Nuh uh," he muttered. "We are not having this." He saw Doug returning, and an idea came to him. "Doug, would you do me a huge favor?"

"What kind of favor?" Doug asked.

"I need the security tapes for the last fifteen minutes from this establishment," Peter said. "While you were gone, some nutcase came in here and threatened me. I don't want to involve the police. Please?" He smiled his best smile.

Doug sighed. "I don't like it," he said, shaking his head. "I'll see what I can do."

"Could you give the tape to Strange and get me an appointment with him?"

"I'll give the tape to Strange," Doug said shortly, "but your photos are going to have to get you an appointment."

"That's fine," Peter said. "That's just fine."

"Take care," Doug said.

"I'll see you around," Peter said with as much of a smile as he could manage. Then he was outside, almost running, ducking into the alley.

"Yeah, 'be ready' this," he muttered as he ducked out of his shirt, hopped out of his pants and shoes, quickly twisted web around his clothes and hid them behind the dumpster. "Spider ghost indeed." From its tightly wrapped patch on his back he unfolded his spider mesh and slipped into it, feeling his body temperature rise, his senses open like a clenched fist uncurling, his muscles relaxing, his speed coiling.

Mid day. Lots of people. Stealth in order. He bounced to the wall and scuttled up to the roof, rolling onto it and peeking over the side.

Nearby. The hunter was still nearby. Peter felt him.

With the mesh over his face, he smelled his breath. "Blegh," he muttered. "Like I need this on top of everything else." Then his stomach gurgled. "Oh yeah, no lunch," he grumbled. "So much for the first day of spring break." He felt a sudden chill. He thought and focused for a moment, trying to identify it.

Vulnerability.

He shivered. "Enough of this." He glanced around and sprang to the building next door, then scuttled up it. He stood to his full height on that building, and looked around. Urban, daytime. He never exercised downtown. Under the mesh, he smiled. Time to start. His smile faded. Get some distance. Get the spider mind busy with action so he could do some serious thinking.

His eyes were drawn to a skyscraper that lunged far up into the sky. Yeah. That's the ticket.

xXx

The side of the building blurred beneath him as he jinked and juked, scrabbled and hopped upward. Like running, only fighting a gravity that was stronger than wind. Ten floors up so far. Peter felt it in his muscles, in his chest, the beginning of the end of his breath.

Specific to general to specific. That's how questions run. So the specific began; he was a "spider ghost" and because of that some whack job wanted to kill him. He heard a gasp through the thick glass as he shot past a window; oops. Someone must have been reflecting on the view of the city from twelve floors above it when he flashed by. Peter couldn't help but grin.

So this time someone wanted to kill him because he was different. The hunter had chosen a time to make contact when Peter was on a date. What if it had been a confrontation instead of a warning? What about Gwen?

Peter darted past a flagpole. No resting. No cheating. Just counting floors and moving up, leaving the risk of falling unseen behind him, steadily growing while he looked forward to his goal.

Yes, what about Gwen. What would she say, what would she think if she knew what he was capable of? One thing not to tell your date that you are a great soccer player and can paint like Van Gogh, another thing to keep from her the fact that you can stroll across the ceiling and spin your own leotards. What if he was attacked because of his powers and the enemies those powers made? What of her? What if she found out from someone besides him?

He skimmed around to the west side of the building to get more shade and he kept propelling himself upward, feeling the distance to the ground growing as though it was a weight beneath him that gripped him more firmly as he ascended.

Specific to general. Twenty one years of life; at the end of college, what then? What sort of honest work can a man get when he can shoot webs out of his arms and punch a normal mortal to death with an accidental blow? Would the spider be sacrificed for the normal life, or the normal life given up in an ascent to power and wealth?

He felt the tugging of his breath in his chest as he hit thirty floors. He pushed on, up, his speed undiminished, his thoughts spinning wildly.

His webs would always threaten his normal life, and his normal life would always pose a threat to his unnatural powers. But the threat of surrendering either loomed above him, and he raced towards it.

General to specific. What about this hunter? Could Peter justify the hunter's death to save his own life? And what about... what about Gwen?

The top, at long last, the top. Peter launched up in the air, caught the lip of the roof, and swung himself up, his chest heaving and his heart hammering. Forty floors. Damnation. He peered down.

From up here, the cars looked like tiny insects.

And Peter was the spider.

He stood and looked at the pucker marks of the spinnerets in his forearms; they were currently drooling a little web. "The question is not who I am," he murmured, "but what I am. How thick is the line between man and beast?"

On an impulse, his blood still a fury in his veins, he leaped off of the building and began to spin in free fall. It was the man that pushed him off the side; the wind whipped past him, waking him up to a razor point of experiencing life that cut him to the bone.

Webs shot out; his descent became an arc.

The spider carried him through whatever the man in him started.

Maybe, just maybe, that was the answer.

A troubled creature swung towards its lair.

xXx

Peter Parker strolled through the front door and walked up to the answering machine. Blinking. Messages. He touched the Play button.

neep "Peter, this is MJ, remember we got a party for Flash tomorrow night, it's his birthday, gimmie a call back and I'll give you the lowdown on time and stuff. Figure about twenty bucks will work for the gift and party, so we'll look forward to your contribution. I would just expect you to miss the bash, but Gwen will be there, so the way I see it you have no good reason not to show up. You have my number, tiger." neep.

neep "Pete, this is Harry. You up for some apartment hunting this week? Look for some space in the urban jungle to set up our hunting platforms? Really, though, Wednesday is good for me, noon. Gimme a call." neep.

neep "Peter, this is Gwen, just wondering when you planned on picking me up for Flash's party tomorrow. How about four? This is no time to get mysteerious on me, big guy. Be in touch." neep.

Peter heaved a deep sigh. "I gotta lay my hands on some cash," he muttered. "This poverty bit is really cramping my style." He picked up the note by the answering machine.

"Peter—I have an appointment at hairdressers. Pick me up at 4:30? Aunt May"

"Yeah, sure," he muttered. "Car still works." He trudged up the stairs and down the hall to his room. Glanced at the clock. Almost two. He had time. He opened the closet and pulled out a small mannequin of a child. "C'mere, Chuck," he muttered. "Daddy needs new long underwear." He picked up a can of black spray paint and two small round pieces of posterboard. Back down the stairs, all the way down to the basement.

He set up the child mannequin and stepped back. Then he rolled up his sleeves. His forearms flexed, and a thin mist of spray hissed out of his arms over the figure. As the webbing spattered over the plastic figure, it thickened. He walked around the short figure, spraying as he went, until it was evenly coated. He stepped back and took a critical look at his work.

"Not bad," he said. The pale gray webbing was already drying into dense fabric. Peter stuck the two circles of posterboard on the face. "Eyes," he muttered. Then he shook the rattling can of black spray paint. He worked over the webbing for a few minutes until every inch was black. Then he peeled the posterboard off, revealing pale eyes.

"Stretched, it's just right for a friendly neighborhood wall crawler," he said to himself. He grinned, and pushed the figure back behind a sofa. He would return and strip the webbing off and fold it into a thin black patch to conceal on the small of his back later.

Right now, he had a sweet old lady to pick up from the hairdressers.

xXx

They sat at a stoplight, Peter with his arm casually hanging out the window and Aunt May with her purse primly gripped with both hands in her lap. "Your hair looks great, Aunt May," Peter said with a smile.

"Why, thank you, Peter," she said, blushing and patting her hair, which looked exactly the same to him as it had before she went in. "And thank you for being on time picking me up, too."

"Hey, nothing's too good for my girl," he said. "Which reminds me. Are you terribly busy on Thursday?"

"Hm, no, nothing going on Thursday," she said. "Why?"

"Well, right now I'm seeing this girl, her name is Gwen Stacy. I was thinking about inviting her over to dinner, you know, to meet you," Peter said casually. "How would five o'clock on Thursday be?"

"Oh Peter," Aunt May said, positively beaming, "that would be fine, just fine. We could have some roast, yes, and I could make some stuffing. Does she like pie?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure she's a red blooded American, Aunt May, so whatever you make will suit her just fine." Peter got a sinking feeling as he watched Aunt May's excitement meteorically rise.

"That's good, that's wonderful. I'll get out the china for this. Peter Parker bringing a girl home to meet me. Must be serious, hm?"

"What can I say," Peter said with a pained smile. "She's special."

"Special, yes, special," Aunt May said as her plans took wing.

Peter wondered if he had perhaps given her too much time to prepare.