Spawn Guy
01-06-2007, 09:45 PM
Chapter One: Rescue
My name is Peter Parker…and I’ve been Spider-Man since I was fifteen years old.
Many of you are doubtless wondering how I made it all the way through college. Well quick survey, how many people here married to a super model?
No keep them up, I want to make sure I count all those hands.
Not that I can see much right now. Iron beams collapsing on top of each other are inconsiderate beasts. Barely any room, doubt Reed Richards could even crawl through.
Or stretch. Whatever. Brains screwing up a little. Maybe we’ve got less air left than I thought. The glow from my belt light only shows more rubble over head. Not good.
Gwen coughs in my arms, and it pulls at my heart beneath the stupid spider emblem splashed across my costumed chest. It means so much to her right now, but it won’t be worth a damn thing if I can’t pick up the pace and dump it back up top again.
“Hey, stay with me, okay honey? We’re going to get you out of here, alright?”
Her eyes open, like they have to be held open by little elves. With weak arms.
“Kay.”
Barely heard that. Got to move. Now.
But there in lies the rub…we can’t. Wall crawling might have gotten us up this far, but that meant leaving behind anywhere I could set her down. Meaning I can’t loosen up both hands to move these things out of the way, and even if I could do it with just one hand (which I can’t by the way) I’d bring the entire building down on her. More than it already has anyway.
The word I’m looking for is “Parker Luck”. And also rhymes with “Ducking”.
Note to self, never agree to follow J Jonah Jameson anywhere. Ever. I doubt why I even have a Spider Sense nowadays, I can already see the troubles coming before that little rolled up hedgehog feeling starts up at the back of my skull. And yet here we are.
I never thought I’d actually miss New York, and the situation probably wouldn’t be better off there anyway, but at least I’d be on home ground. When Aunt May convinced me to take a chance to see the sights of the city of tomorrow, somehow I doubt she was talking about roughly ten floors worth of Metropolis architecture. At least I’ll die knowing my corpse gets to fertilize the soil of one of the classiest cities on the planet. The place probably looks spectacular from the air, cathedral like spires mixed with art deco and Greek/Roman temples redone in glass and steel. Looked pretty nice from the train window. Or so Ben Urich told me. I wouldn’t know, I was standing in middle class because my ticket wasn’t part of the two for one deal ( that Jameson, what a saint!)
Surprisingly, the entire reason I’m here for this sky scraper to decide to dump itself on me might be because Jonah does in fact have a soul. Some award ceremony for an old friend, Perry White of Metropolis’s own Daily Planet. They were cub reporters, covering the same story in Chicago way back when. They hated each others guts the moment they met so naturally they became the best of friends. At first glance you’d have no idea why; White’s cool under pressure, tolerant, impartial, tips his waiter, and has no moustache. Then some freckled red head guy almost spills punch on his tux and as my ear drums almost burst all I can think is There it is. He’s a publisher and he’s got a loud voice. Go figure.
Turns out I wasn’t just there because of my photojournalistic talents…or maybe I was. Kinda. Mr Redhead was revealed to be the Jimmy Olson…cub photog with up close shots of Doomsday and Braniac’s skull ship Jimmy Olson. Trailed by married reporter couple Lois Lane and Clark Kent. She kept her last name. I’m assuming its not because there’s anything wrong with the name Kent but a little alliteration seems to go a long way with this town. Like Lex Luthor. Go on, say it out loud.
So there they all were. On White’s side of the table. Who’s won an award for the umpteenth time. And on Johan’s, Ben Urich, who’s actually won the same number of Pulitzers as Lane and Kent put together and me. Who’s got a shot of a certain web head under my belt for every shot of a certain local Metropolis legend Olson’s ever taken. Old friends being old friends, in their own way. Everything goes on okay for the next couple of minutes. We mingle. Well, I try. I grew up with an elderly couple in Queens. I actually studied in College. I can recall the exact number of wedgies I received in high school in my head. I split my time between juggling a job and a vigilante career and remembering my wedding anniversary. My best friend can light himself on fire and lives in a giant number four. Socializing isn’t one of my better spider powers. I catch Kent over by the punch bowl and find he hasn’t actually drunk that much. That makes the two of us just about the only completely sober people in the room. We talk. Nice guy, would have liked to have talked to him in high school, share a swirly or two. Then I got that sub atomic explosion from my spider sense.
Two floors down. Something big.
I’m about to make some excuse to Clark before he actually does my job for me; he goes to find the restroom.
“A little punch goes a long way, right? Excuse me Peter.”
Weird, but it made my job a little easier. He’s got the restroom so if I move fast enough I can get roof access and back in time to check up on things, right? Wrong.
My name is Peter Parker…and I’ve been Spider-Man since I was fifteen years old.
Many of you are doubtless wondering how I made it all the way through college. Well quick survey, how many people here married to a super model?
No keep them up, I want to make sure I count all those hands.
Not that I can see much right now. Iron beams collapsing on top of each other are inconsiderate beasts. Barely any room, doubt Reed Richards could even crawl through.
Or stretch. Whatever. Brains screwing up a little. Maybe we’ve got less air left than I thought. The glow from my belt light only shows more rubble over head. Not good.
Gwen coughs in my arms, and it pulls at my heart beneath the stupid spider emblem splashed across my costumed chest. It means so much to her right now, but it won’t be worth a damn thing if I can’t pick up the pace and dump it back up top again.
“Hey, stay with me, okay honey? We’re going to get you out of here, alright?”
Her eyes open, like they have to be held open by little elves. With weak arms.
“Kay.”
Barely heard that. Got to move. Now.
But there in lies the rub…we can’t. Wall crawling might have gotten us up this far, but that meant leaving behind anywhere I could set her down. Meaning I can’t loosen up both hands to move these things out of the way, and even if I could do it with just one hand (which I can’t by the way) I’d bring the entire building down on her. More than it already has anyway.
The word I’m looking for is “Parker Luck”. And also rhymes with “Ducking”.
Note to self, never agree to follow J Jonah Jameson anywhere. Ever. I doubt why I even have a Spider Sense nowadays, I can already see the troubles coming before that little rolled up hedgehog feeling starts up at the back of my skull. And yet here we are.
I never thought I’d actually miss New York, and the situation probably wouldn’t be better off there anyway, but at least I’d be on home ground. When Aunt May convinced me to take a chance to see the sights of the city of tomorrow, somehow I doubt she was talking about roughly ten floors worth of Metropolis architecture. At least I’ll die knowing my corpse gets to fertilize the soil of one of the classiest cities on the planet. The place probably looks spectacular from the air, cathedral like spires mixed with art deco and Greek/Roman temples redone in glass and steel. Looked pretty nice from the train window. Or so Ben Urich told me. I wouldn’t know, I was standing in middle class because my ticket wasn’t part of the two for one deal ( that Jameson, what a saint!)
Surprisingly, the entire reason I’m here for this sky scraper to decide to dump itself on me might be because Jonah does in fact have a soul. Some award ceremony for an old friend, Perry White of Metropolis’s own Daily Planet. They were cub reporters, covering the same story in Chicago way back when. They hated each others guts the moment they met so naturally they became the best of friends. At first glance you’d have no idea why; White’s cool under pressure, tolerant, impartial, tips his waiter, and has no moustache. Then some freckled red head guy almost spills punch on his tux and as my ear drums almost burst all I can think is There it is. He’s a publisher and he’s got a loud voice. Go figure.
Turns out I wasn’t just there because of my photojournalistic talents…or maybe I was. Kinda. Mr Redhead was revealed to be the Jimmy Olson…cub photog with up close shots of Doomsday and Braniac’s skull ship Jimmy Olson. Trailed by married reporter couple Lois Lane and Clark Kent. She kept her last name. I’m assuming its not because there’s anything wrong with the name Kent but a little alliteration seems to go a long way with this town. Like Lex Luthor. Go on, say it out loud.
So there they all were. On White’s side of the table. Who’s won an award for the umpteenth time. And on Johan’s, Ben Urich, who’s actually won the same number of Pulitzers as Lane and Kent put together and me. Who’s got a shot of a certain web head under my belt for every shot of a certain local Metropolis legend Olson’s ever taken. Old friends being old friends, in their own way. Everything goes on okay for the next couple of minutes. We mingle. Well, I try. I grew up with an elderly couple in Queens. I actually studied in College. I can recall the exact number of wedgies I received in high school in my head. I split my time between juggling a job and a vigilante career and remembering my wedding anniversary. My best friend can light himself on fire and lives in a giant number four. Socializing isn’t one of my better spider powers. I catch Kent over by the punch bowl and find he hasn’t actually drunk that much. That makes the two of us just about the only completely sober people in the room. We talk. Nice guy, would have liked to have talked to him in high school, share a swirly or two. Then I got that sub atomic explosion from my spider sense.
Two floors down. Something big.
I’m about to make some excuse to Clark before he actually does my job for me; he goes to find the restroom.
“A little punch goes a long way, right? Excuse me Peter.”
Weird, but it made my job a little easier. He’s got the restroom so if I move fast enough I can get roof access and back in time to check up on things, right? Wrong.