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Black Sustenance	By : FamiraDamaris Category: zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] > Spiderman Views: 15551 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Spiderman, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Black Substenance

by Famira Damaris
Disclaimer: I don't own Spider-man.

Author Notes: Basically
it's mostly Ultimate Spider-man universe except Venom's origins are
the symbiote and the shuttle crash. Again, plot first, pairings
next. This is mostly a mixing of 616 and Ultimateverse.
Slashyish, you have been warned. Not fluffy. Sorry about the big delay
guys. I tried to make up with a gigantic chapter? :D?
Italics
for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote

Archive: Sure, just ask.
----------------------

Black
Sustenance

----------------------
(When Eddie Met Peter)
For
once both Eddie Brock and the symbiote were entirely single-minded –
any
disagreements they might have had over their feeding habits was
temporarily
forgotten as they registered just what
in the world was enfolding right in front of their eyes.
What
they saw made them see red.
Sandman stood over their Spider.
Everything
about his body language screamed dominant,
as if he owned Parker.

Whatever his actual intentions were
was irrelevant. They read it as a threat to what was their property.
Venom swung in, letting
go of the web line at the apex of the arc and
dropping like a stone toward their enemy, fangs bared in a snarl.
Sandman
responded by morphing his arm into a giant hammer of sand – how imaginative – but they were ready for
him this time, oh yes. Several black, pulsing tendrils spun out from
their
bunched shoulders, racing toward the hammer to engulf it, seeking to
absorb it
into themselves. Sandman managed to recall his blow before they could,
but they
saw the beginnings of fear and doubt set in. Venom landed heavily on
all fours
and charged at the other, drooling tongue snaking through the air as
they went
to drive him off.
They
won several yards between them and their contested territory
of Parker before Sandman
ground in
his heels stubbornly and refused to budge another step backward.
“So what’re ya? Sandman
swirled out of
reach of one of the seeking tendrils, reforming a sandy mouth. “A mutie
like
everyone else in this town?”
A
mutant? They gave a hissing, derisve laugh. Venom risked a glance over
his shoulder. Spider-man was still out-cold
lying where Sandman dropped him, with Venom planted between them.
“We’re collecting,”
Venom hissed. “And
we’re also in a nice, cozy killing
mood today, so we hope you brought plenty humans with you to keep us
company.”
“Sick fuck, aren’t ya?”
A
fang-filled, humorless grin. “We try.”
“Too
bad we’re gunning on opposite
sides, eh?”

“We’re not on anyone’s side-” Venom began,
cutting himself off. He
had a split second to notice the glint over Sandman’s shoulder right
before his
spider-sense began ringing. Reacting on instinct, Venom bounded out of
the way,
a small ping betraying the
tranquilizer hitting the pavement right where his hand had been seconds
before.

Sandman reformed a few meters away, scowling as he glanced over
his
shoulder. “Silver bitch just don’t wait, does she?” he paused,
listening to
something in his ear. “Yes, I’d like to keep my nuts intact, thanks.
It’d help,
y’know, if you wait on cuttin’ them
off until after the job.”

He turned around.
“Oh,
shi- ”

Venom’s claw impacted with his face:
Sandman’s head billowed out back with a violent spray of sand, his
whole skull
dissolving. Reacting instinctively, Sandman slung out with a left hook,
catching only air as Venom ducked.
Unfortunately,
that brought him face to
face with the flash bang grenade that rolled in between Sandman’s feet,
coming
to an innocent stop before erupting with a deafening, blinding
explosion of
light and sound.
Venom
reeled backward, their third set
of eyelids slamming closed before the light could blind them any
further. The
harsh blast of sound was far worse, sending the oily symbiote covering
roiling
and bubbling like oil. They went down on all fours, hissing in agony
and
shaking their head. Another clink to the side. A smoke grenade went
off,
followed by the second flash bang going off at their feet – it was
louder than
before, sending physical pangs of pure agony piercing through their
limbs. They
were aware of something giving an angry, furious roar of defiance, and
scrambling away from the spot, dimly aware of the greasy smoke
surrounding them
and cursing from Sandman.
The spider-sense went
off. Left – no,
right too!
All
directions!
Venom
barreled out of the cloud of smoke,
erupting with slobbering fangs bared, noted that there seemed to be a lot of guns pointed at him, and went for
the closest. He was upon the armored human in a split second, punching
through
the flimsy armor and caving in his ribcage just as the others’ guns
discharged.
The bullets squelched into Venom’s back and bounced off as he threw the
dying
soldier to the ground. A part of them – the Eddie part – was relieved
to find
they apparently were bullet-proof.
The part trying to keep them alive told him to shut up and
concentrate before they ended up swamped by
reinforcements.

They turned, slung out a claw and a tentacle
of their skin snapped off like a whip to wrap around the torso of one
of the
shooters. It constricted. A strangled, guttural scream and then a
deliciously final
snap. The black-clad human collapsed
to the ground like a wet sack of flour. Sensing a gap opening in the
ring as
his opponents spread out, Venom charged forward.
A woman stepped
forward. Clad in some kind of white uniform, a gleaming
curtain of silver hair fluttering in the breeze, she blocked his way.
Venom
assumed this was the “silver bitch” that Sandman mentioned earlier. She
wasn’t
tall by any means but she stared him down with the cool expression of
someone
who was prepared.
She
was also shouldering what looked like a
very big, very deadly rocket launcher.
Without
a change in her expression, the
silver woman fired. Venom braced for an impact.
What
hit him was no ordinary round.
It
tore through him just like a flash bang,
multiplied a hundred fold and throwing him sprawling backward. They
slammed
back into the steps of the Library with crushing force, forcing the air
out of
their lungs. The symbiote hurriedly began pumping in oxygen even as
they
struggled to breathe, wheezing, fangs parted and tongue lolling. The
symbiote
gave a pained twitch every few seconds, torn between wanting to rip
apart every
human here (with Silver Bitch and Sandman at the top of the list) and
beating a
retreat to lick its wounds while it still could. Venom looked up, saw
Sandman
suddenly arcing up over them, his legs standing a good distance away,
and saw
that woman aiming her weapon in his direction.
One
way or another, they’d have to take
a hit.
Sandman
reformed his arms into a basic club
and slammed downward just as Silver Sable fired. Venom took the blow on
the
back of his head and his shoulders, crushed into the very foundation of
the
Library stairs and disappearing in a pile of rubble.
“Christ-!”
Sandman recoiled as Silver Sable’s shot passed through him and hit the
walls
with a deafening crack. “Watch where you’re shootin’!”
“Just
don’t let him escape!”
So
it wasn’t the Spider they were after,
Venom realized, too spent to remove himself from the miniature crater
in the
midst of the stairs. Parker was just bait,
set out for a larger fish to try taking a bite of.

And now the hook was piercing the
fish, too close for their liking.
That changed
everything. Getting
captured wasn’t acceptable, and he weren’t going to stick around
despite his bloodlust.
Much as he’d like to see Silver Bitch and Sandman lying in pools of
blood and
entrails, sometimes one just had to swallow one’s pride and prioritize.
Prioritizing said that they get out of
here while they still could. He wasn’t used to thinking of himself as
actually
vulnerable, but all it would take was knock him unconscious, and then
he’d be
at their mercy.
Venom
played dead for a long minute,
listening to the humans talking amongst themselves about a parameter
and a retrieval
unit, using the time to orient himself and trying to recall where
Parker
was. A few yards away, maybe. They most certainly couldn’t leave him
here, not
when these two would love to use their property against them again.
Venom’s
tongue ran slowly over his bloodied fangs, preparing himself and
waiting for
the pain tremors to die down from that hit earlier. One eye narrowed to
a white
slit, Venom spotted Spider-man. The superhero was lying right where
he’d been
dropped, half on his side with an arm pinned under him, presenting a
wonderful
view of his perfectly toned ass. The suit might as well not be there.
The mating
is too close,
Venom thought, furious to realize they had sexual urges despite the
circumstances. This had to be the worst mating site possible and yet
here he
was, about to have what Eddie Brock called a raging mad
hard-on even though they could very well be captured and
carted off by whoever hired their attackers.
“You think he’s out?”
Sandman’s
gravely voice asked nearby.
“Never
can be sure with these
mutant types,” his female partner said. “He didn’t seem to like my USW
cannon.”
    “I
didn’t like your USW.”
“Then don’t get in its
arc of fire next time.”

“I had him.”

“This isn’t a contest, Marko. It’s a job. I
like to make sure the target’s incapacitated than worry about who gets
points
for taking him down.”

A grunt. “You always this crazy?”
“Part
and parcel of the job - you over there,
hurry up with the containment cage and the verg!”

“Verg?”

“VRG:
vortex ring gun. Payment from my last job. The government hasn’t even
finished
developing them yet. We didn’t know this mutant of yours was
bulletproof, so I
brought two vergs as insurance. They
accelerate pressurized gas at high speeds: we’ve laced these ones with
some
incapacitating agents strong enough to drop just about anything
elephant sized
and smaller. I doubt we can penetrate his skin with the typical
tranquilizers.”
Venom risked tilting
his head up to get
a better view. The humans were scurrying about back and forth between
several
black vans toward the Silver Bitch, her back turned momentarily as she
went to
retrieve her precious vergs. A few
feet away, Spider-man groaned softly, slowly regaining consciousness. Stop
moving, idiot, Venom thought angrily. You’ll
draw attention to us!

Obviously telepathy wasn’t one of their talents. Spider-man squirmed a
bit more and moaned loader. Sandman – Marko, they had a name – glanced
over.
Venom did his best road
kill impression.
Seeing no immediate
threat, Marko glanced
back at his female companion. Venom’s white eyes opened again, the
symbiote’s
third eyelid nictitating sideways as their jaws parted, carefully
ejecting the
symbiote’s translucent green slime – what passed for blood – from their
throat
and onto the cracked pavement with inaudible slopping noises. If Venom
was
going to escape, he wasn’t going to do it choking on his own blood.
They had
more dignity than that.
A small tendril oozed out from their
palm, snaking out slowly toward Spider-man. It connected with his back,
inched
his way over his ribs and back down over the smooth planes of his
stomach until
they were sure they had a good hold of him. A careful glance around.
Most of
the humans were collected in the open ground, with none he could see in
the
actual Library, obviously thinking it was a dead end.
They thought wrong.
Venom
heaved himself up, snapping the
tendril back to him and feeling the comforting weight of their Spider
fall into
their arms. He caught sight of the Silver Bitch turned with what looked
like a
rifle merged with a cannon and shout:


“Don’t let him get away!”
They made a break for it, clutching the limp weight
of Spider-man to
their chest and bounding toward the dark recesses of the Library’s
lobby, the
dust from the debris still floating in their air. They were about to
crash
through the door when Venom heard a very odd, very low sound incoming.
There
wasn’t an explosion, no flash of light, yet he felt like he’d been
punched hard in the back with an ice pick, hard
enough that it felt like their spine would snap. Agony. They hit the
heavy interior
doors and ripped them off the hinges, lurching forward and just barely
managed
to remain standing, stumbling and scrambling for purchase on rubbery
legs.
It
seemed like a good idea to just lie
down. Rest a bit.
But
the pounding of pursuing feet
made that impossible.
Working
more on instinct than anything
else, Venom snapped up a wrist and shot forth a line of web, pulling
himself up
into the air with a single motion to go crashing against the second
floor
window of the lobby. Shattered glass sparkled around them. He was
startled to
find his breaths were coming in ragged, wheezing pants, and knew it
wasn’t from
the shot alone. That silver human - that
bitch – had laced it with something, hadn’t she? Yes, they
remembered her
saying something…she’d laced her weapon with something, because the verg didn’t shoot the typically
ineffective bullets. Bullets didn’t cause this much pain. Bullets also
didn’t
have this feeling of something inside
them, running through their very veins, and slowly but surely invading
their
shared nervous system.
Sedatives?
Animal tranqs.
The
next few minutes seemed to be a blur to Venom, merging into one
another with only brief flashes of reality; a glimpse of a window, a
wall
coming perilously close, the fading sound of sirens, and eventually the
sense
of it all sinking away. A kind of deadly numbness settled into their
bones. The
only thing that seemed to remain a constant was the solid feel of
Spider-man’s
warm body pressed up against theirs, one of his toned arms hooked about
loosely
around their neck, his head resting against their chest. He still
hadn’t quite
regained consciousness and Venom wasn’t even sure how long he
would be conscious.
   A few minutes. Maybe.

Venom was distantly aware of swinging
himself into up onto a ledge and scrambling over the brick wall of some
kind of
dingy playground, closed off for demolition, before he finally fell to
his
knees, Spider-man dropping with a thud from slack claws onto dusty
gravel.
Wheezing, Venom struggled to breathe, his tongue lolling out between
fangs,
eyes hooded as he pushed himself to his feet, staggered back toward the
wall a
distance away, and leaned heavily against it. Just a minute to catch
their
breath. The Spider would be fine, and what was more, he wasn’t in
Sandman’s
possession.
Just
a minute was all they needed.
Sliding down into a
sitting position, Venom
slumped over. He heard someone gasping for air and it took a few long,
confused
seconds to realize it was him.
Just a minute…
--------------------------

“Ugh…”
Spider-man
groaned. Since when had he been fed through a cement mixer
and spat out?
Another moan. Ouch.
Ouchouch with
another ouch on top of that.
Let’s
not do that again, Spider-man thought. Owwwww.

Being in this much pain probably wasn’t a
good thing, especially when his memory of how he came to be like this
was all
muddled. All he remembered was trying to fight off Sand Dude and
then….nothing.
Just this buzzing in his head, which happened to be filled to the top
with the
very small cotton balls that seemed to be in his mouth. Dry, that was
what it
felt like. There really wasn’t a better description for it aside from
being
really cotton bally.

The next couple of long
seconds he
devoted to trying to push himself up seemed to stretch on forever, and
Spider-man
was ridiculously proud of himself when he did
finally manage to sit up. Bits and pieces of what happened were
starting to
come back. The fight had ended up at the
Library, with Sand Dude hot on his heels, hadn’t it? For some reason he
remembered
the sensation of compressed air against his skin and something pricking
him
through his costume – like a needle or something. Kinda reminded him of
that
time Aunt May took him to get his wisdom teeth removed, actually. Not fun.
Where
am I, anyway?
Glancing around before
him, it was pretty obvious this wasn’t the
Library: there were a few rusted jungle gyms and see-saws that were
probably
death traps waiting to happen in the distance, with browning weeds
scattered
across the lot and a few sparse trees here and there. He couldn’t
imagine how
in the world he could possibly have made it from the Library to here
(wherever here was), and anyway, he would’ve liked
to think he could have picked a place with better cover. Spider-man
cradled his
head, nursing it for a moment as he tried to control the urge to just
be
gloriously sick all over the ground. There was no way
he was throwing up with his mask on.
Spider-man
sat up and rested his head between
his knees, waiting for the nausea to pass. Definitely on par with
getting
wisdom teeth removed.
After a few minutes he
thought he’d be fit
to stand. While standing up looked daunting, considering how hard it
had been
to sit up, he knew he couldn’t just sit here and wait for Sand Dude and
his
buddies to find him. What had that been all about anyway? I
didn’t even see him that time, Spider-man thought, closing his
eyes and waiting for the pavement between his feet to stop spinning. I was just minding my own business. I
could’ve sworn he came after me this
time. It almost felt like he had been targeted, especially when he
finally
remembered that he had been shot with
something before that big blank in his memory. Was it about his secret
identity?
Spider-man
wobbled but managed proudly to remain standing, concentrating
and concentrating hard on keeping his
legs under him. They seemed to want to have the consistency of Jell-O. Okay, easy does it. Baby steps, right?
He turned around and suddenly paused, stiffening, as he saw what was
behind
him. Oh my God.
There
was a body of a blond-haired man few feet away, slumped up against
the wall in a half-sitting position, and not moving, his face obscured
from the
way his head rested on his chest. There wasn’t any clothing on him,
which was
alarming in itself. Spider-man had seen a lot more than just about any
kids his
age, but finding naked dead people lying about wasn’t one of those
things.
Hesitantly he took a step, and then another over, deciding to be
cautious.
“Hey?”
he said. “Sir, are you okay? Or, uh, alive? Please, please tell
me you’re alive.”
No
answer. Okay, don’t panic.
Could just be unconscious. Absolutely no
need to freak out, Peter. You’ve faced Norman Osbourne: you can handle
this. If
he’s…not alive, then you can just call the police.
Feeling
a bit braver, but still somewhat apprehensive (hopefully this
man really wasn’t dead), Spider-man
closed the distance and crouched down, laying a hand on the man’s
shoulder.
Warm still. Careful not to move the body, he touched his fingers to his
neck,
and breathed an audible sigh of relief. Still had a pulse. It was
labored, but
it was there, at least. While he felt like a steamroller had run over
him for
kicks, Spider-man knew he couldn’t just leave this poor guy here in
good
conscience just because he didn’t
feel up to it.
It
was when he got a good look at the man’s
face that he started having second thoughts.
Eddie Brock!
“Oh
jeez!”
Spider-man back peddled
frantically with a sharp gasp.
Suddenly panicking
uncontrollably
looked like a pretty good idea, and he was just about to turn and get
out of
there when that annoying conscience kicked in again.
Slowly he turned
around,
cringing, and stared at the unconscious man, hands on his slim hips as
he bit
his lip. Despite the fact he knew Brock hated him, nevermind the fact
he was
host to a crazy oil slick from space who also
hated him, Spider-man just couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving him
here
wasn’t the right thing to do. It was
probably the safest, but it wasn’t the right thing to do and he wasn’t that big a big fat jerk to leave the guy
out here in without even any clothes.

At least he really did look unconscious, Spider-man
reflected, bending down again and
examining Brock. His eyes were closed, but there were dark spots under
them, as
if he hadn’t been getting very much sleep recently. His lips were
cracked, and
slightly parted as he breathed, and he looked deceptively harmless, as
if he
was just sleeping. There didn’t seem to be any blood or even any
bruises, no
sign of any kind of struggle aside from the thin sheen of sweat
covering his
body.
“What’re you doing out here, Brock?”
Spider-man muttered, uneasy. Why would Brock of all people be lying in
the
middle of nowhere, naked (he was still young enough to be flustered by
it, and
blushed), and unconscious? “Where’s
the symbiote?”
Maybe
it gave up. Ditched Brock and decided
to call it quits, maybe try to go somewhere else. Spider-man couldn’t
really
see that as being very plausible, but he was willing to hope. At any
rate, he
wasn’t going to leave Brock here. Hoping that the former reporter
wasn’t just
faking being unconscious, Spider-man bent down and carefully draped a
limp arm
over his shoulders, hoisting them up as he made sure he had a good grip
on the
man. Brock was far heavier than he looked, Spider-man realized, giving
an
annoyed grunt. At least he’s not trying
to pop my head off, he thought, trying to be positive.
I’m probably going to regret
this for life. If I knew you would care, Brock, I’d totally say you owe
me for
this.
---------------------
Apparently
trying to explain what you
were doing holding an unconscious, naked guy was a lot harder than it
looked.
At least the cop in the emergency room lobby wasn’t shooting at him or trying to arrest him (or both).
Spider-man decided he liked Officer April already.
“So
you found this John Doe in some kind
of park?” the female police officer frowned. “No signs of a struggle?”

Spider-man shook his head. He just wanted to go home, but he had to
answer what questions he could. “Not that I could see. I…just thought
something
looked suspicious, so I swung down and there he was. That’s how he was
like
when I found him there.”
“Right…you
do know this looks highly suspect?”
He
sighed. “Lady, you don’t know
the half of it,” he muttered under his breath.
“I’m
sorry, what?”
“Nothing,
it’s not important,” Spider-man
said, waving it away. “Look, I’m kind of worried about him. Is there
any way to
keep tabs on him?”

The cop raised an eyebrow at this. “We’re not supposed to
release any
personal information, especially not to masked vigilantes such as
yourself. I’m
sorry, but that’s how it is. Off the record, I admit I think what
you’re doing
is a good thing for New York,”
April
added, lowering her voice, and offering a tight-lipped smile. “We could
use
more people like you.”
“I…uh…thanks,
I guess.”
“Still,
good guy or not, I can’t allow you
access. I’m sorry. I’m sure his family and friends will appreciate what
you
did, but you’ll have to let ER take it from here.”
April
made as if to go toward back toward the
counter, and then seemed to think better of it, turning back toward
Spider-man
and clapping him on the shoulder.
“Don’t
worry about him, Spider-man. They
can take care of him. We’ll find out who he is and get him back to his
loved
ones as soon as possible.”
That’s
what I’m worried about. Behind his mask, Spider-man frowned
nervously.
Maybe Brock would wake up and decide to change his ways, rethink the
whole
let’s-kill-Spidey plan and try to live a normal life that didn’t
involve
killing and Peter Parker. Would he flip out when he found himself here?
Spider-man hoped not. Brock hadn’t been in the most stable state of
mind last
time he’d seen him several months ago, but maybe he chilled out since
then. You don’t know though. It could
be just wishful thinking and he knew he’d have to
stake this place out and make sure Brock didn’t hurt any of the
civilians here.
Great, Spider-man
sighed
inwardly. This probably meant he had to actually visit the man. As if
school
and a job weren’t enough.
Officer
April nodded toward the doors. “You should probably leave now.
It won’t be good for you if you stick around.”

Ouch.


“Point taken. Thanks for the help, officer.”
That
went a lot better than expected,
all things considering. His head still felt funky and his body tingly
and just
plain weird, but he wasn’t getting
pummeled by Sand Dude, and he at least knew where Brock was. That and
he wasn’t
being chased out of the ER as if he was some kind of criminal, so he
had to
admit that things went…well,
surprisingly. It was kind of nice to be able to exit the scene with
some
dignity.
Still
wasn’t looking to that visit
though.
-------------
Humans
were funny, bizarre little
creatures. For example, sometimes in their night cycles they had mental
fantasies that played in their brains like their primitive movies,
often for
hours at a time. Often they were nonsensical, with no apparent
beginning or end
until the human in question suddenly woke up disoriented and confused.
Eddie
Brock said they were “dreams” and that everyone did it. From the
symbiote’s
point of view, it was a miracle humans even evolved this far,
considering they
spent their night cycles in such a useless and vulnerable fashion.
There
didn’t seem to be a set purpose
for these “dreams” as far as the symbiote knew, only that they happened
and
couldn’t be controlled. Usually they were utter nonsense, figments from
the
strange human imagination, and it was then that the symbiote tuned it
out as
irrelevant and distracting. While they were indeed bonded, there was
really no
way to shut off what it was inconvenient and so it had to put up with
its host’s
mental activities even when he was unconscious.
Eddie Brock was
dreaming now. It had
taken some time to recover from the sedatives that silver human
injected them
with, but the host was at the moment sleeping calmly, after suffering
the
bewildered surprise of finding himself in the emergency room with no
recollection as to how he’d gotten there. The female police officer
that
greeted him made the mistake of clarifying: Spider-man found him
unconscious
somewhere and rescued him. And now he was safe, she added, so he should
get
some rest because she had questions she needed to ask tomorrow, both
about
himself and if he knew Spider-man.
Eddie
Brock didn’t dream of
Spider-man, although the thought of the Spider they lusted for always
lingered.

No, he dreamt of Peter Parker. He dreamt of the day when he
first met
the boy….
------------------------
He’s just a kid was Eddie Brock’s first thought. Way too
young to
even be considering professional journalism. He was what, fifteen?
Sixteen? Not
even in college yet! He hadn’t even
started thinking about college at that age, much less what he planned
to do
afterward. While Eddie could see why having someone computer-savvy
around - as
this Peter Parker was supposed to be – could be useful, he didn’t see
what that
had to do with him being told he could start trailing the real
reporters
around. While he hadn’t met him yet, he still was leery about the whole
idea.
It seemed like a waste of time to him.

The important thing was that Jameson didn’t seem to think so.
“Take a seat, Eddie,”
Jameson said,
waving at one of the chairs.
Eddie sat down and
tried futilely to get
comfortable. The man had some of the hardest chairs he’d ever sat in,
and even
seemed to take relish in it, watching his employee fidget and chewing
his
cigar. Eddie was convinced those things would kill him someday.
Or
try, anyway. Jameson was a
hardass through and through. It would take more than a bunch of pussy
cigars to
kill him.
“Boss,
I just don’t know about all this,”
Eddie began, frowning. “I can cover the Quentin Beck conference on my
own.”
Jameson
rounded his desk, but didn’t sit
down. He liked to stand while those in his office sat – gave him a
sense of
power and was a small reminder of what the hierarchy was.

“Parker’s coming with you.”
The
blond refused to give up. “You just said he only maintains the Bugle
website. I just don’t see why your programmer needs to tag along with
me on a
beat. I think I can handle a simple conference.”
“He’s coming whether you like it or not,”
Jameson said, staring the journalist straight in the eye. “He should
have some
first hand experience with what we do here. It’ll give him a better
outlook on
his work on our site. From his poor attendance record, you’d think he
didn’t
take his job seriously.”
Eddie
fumed quietly. He didn’t think his
boss was saying he was a bad journalist, necessarily, but it still felt
that
way all the same. It wasn’t a good feeling either, not when he took
very real pride
in his abilities and his work. He put everything into his job here at
the
Bugle, and not just because he was newly married: he honestly thought
he could
do some real good with reporting. It felt right
to be here, working for Jameson and working for the Daily
Bugle.
“I
hope you’re not asking me to baby-sit
him,” said Eddie.

“It’s not a question of asking. I’m telling you
to.”
Eddie
shook his head. “I guess there’s
no changing your mind, is there?”
“Not
really, no.”
Christ.
There was no working around it
then. He’d just have to suck it up and deal with the kid dogging his
heels for
the day, Eddie supposed. It wasn’t that long anyway. It would be an
exercise of
his patience, but Anne said he could improve in that area to begin
with. His
wife was right. Seemed kind of stupid to get so caught up over whether
or not a
kid he hadn’t even met yet tagged along and took notes.
“Okay,”
said Eddie. “I’ll try to do what I
can. I just hope he doesn’t follow so close that I trip over him.”
Jameson
broke into one of his typically fierce
grins: it looked more like a snarl hooded by his mustache than anything
friendly, but Eddie could tell he was pleased. “That’s the spirit,
Eddie.”
Eddie
checked his watch. “So where is
this Parker anyway? Isn’t he supposed to be here by now?”
The
head editor heaved an annoyed sigh. “Fucked if I know.”
“Not
very professional, is he?”
“Flaky
as hell, actually,” Jameson
admitted. “Not a complete moron like
kids are these days, but he’s an idiot when priorities are concerned.”
That
didn’t sound very promising. Eddie
wondered why the kid was even still working at the Bugle if he was this
late
consistently. Surely he’d run out of excuses or Jameson or Robbie would
call
him out on it. The Quentin Beck conference was today,
and while reasonably close, he still wanted to scope out the
place, maybe see if he could nab an exclusive with Beck himself.
Waiting for
Parker to show up was only delaying the chance of that happening.
It
was another ten minutes before he did show, rushing
into the office half
out of breath.
“I’m
s-sorry I’m late,” the boy said,
trying to catch his breath. “E-Emergency with my aunt’s, um, allergies.”
“Again?”
Jameson sounded incredulous. He made a cutting motion with his hand.
“Nevermind!
Peter Parker, this is Eddie Brock. You’ve kept us waiting.”

Eddie stood up and faced Parker, sizing him up. Peter Parker was
shorter
than he, but could potentially put on a growth spurt. Despite his state
of clothing
(part of his work shirt was untucked), he had that wiry look of someone
who was
either an acrobat or who spent a good portion of his life running from
school
bullies. Looking at the kid, Eddie decided it was probably the latter:
something about Parker just screamed bully
material, he thought, feeling some sympathy for the kid. Probably
explained
why he was so interested in a respectable job like the Bugle, although
Eddie
was of the mind that Peter needed to clean up his act if he did. For
starters,
cutting that shaggy, mousy brown hair. It wasn’t hippie length, but it
was long
enough that it looked like Parker didn’t care too much about his
appearances.
One of the things he
would have to learn
was that appearances could make or break you in this job. It wasn’t
improbable
that an exclusive with someone could turn sour if you didn’t look or
act
professional and clean cut. At least he had a good complexion, his
youthful
face clear of noticeable blemishes.

Eddie held out his hand. Parker shook it enthusiastically. Eddie
couldn’t
help wincing at the handshake, feeling as if the kid was crushing his
fingers
together.
Noticing this, Parker
sheepishly
let go. “Sorry, Eddie.”

“It’s okay,” said Eddie, giving his hand a
rueful shake. A person’s handshake said loads about them, in his
opinion.
Despite Parker’s appearances, it looked like self-confidence wasn’t one of his problems. “Strong grip
there.”
“Got
ahead of myself, I guess.”
Jameson
rolled his eyes. “We done with the
pillow talk?” he demanded. “This’s only a day deal, Parker. You’ll
accompany
Eddie here for today and tonight. He’ll be reporting on the Quentin
Beck press
conference at the Javits Convention Center about his next project, so
you need
to be on the ball.” He shook an accusing finger at Parker. “No excuses.
You need to be there on time and be Eddie’s
shadow. I want you glued to his hip and inseparable.”

“I will.”
Jameson
chewed on his cigar for a moment
and then nodded. “Okay. I’ll expect some good stuff when you both get
back. We’ll
see how well you work together: maybe I’ll like what I see, but I’m not
getting
my hopes up.”
“John’ll
be there, right?” Eddie asked. He met Jameson’s son once
before, right before he left to go train to be an astronaut.
The
head editor fairly glowed with pride. “You better believe it. If you
can, get some pictures of him with Quentin Beck. Now go get in gear
before they
start the conference without you.”
Eddie
herded Parker out of his boss’s office, feeling more like a
babysitter than a journalist and not too happy at the hint that this
might not
be the last of it. They rode the elevator down together to the parking
garage,
Parker fidgeting with the mangy green backpack he’d run in with. Eddie
glanced
over, frowning.
“You
know, you can leave that in my car if
you want. You don’t need your books where we’re going.”
Parker blinked and
looked a bit nervous, giving that
deer-in-the-headlights look. “Thanks, but I think I’m cool,” he said,
shouldering his backpack.
“Okay,
lesson one, Parker,” Eddie said,
feeling for the teenager despite himself. “Appearances. We have
to look professional where we’re going and lugging in a
backpack that looks like that is the
first way to shoot that impression down.”

Parker flushed. “I didn’t know that.”
“You
should probably just leave it in my car. It’ll be safe there: I just
don’t
think you should bring it in is all I’m saying.”
“Okay…I
guess,” Parker sounded mildly
flustered. “I’ll do that.”
The
drive to the Javits Center
wasn’t as awkward as he
thought he would. It was out of habit of his job that he inquired about
Parker’s background, but the kid seemed more than happy to talk about
his aunt
and his friends, although he didn’t seem to have much in the way of
hobbies
from what Eddie could tell. He seemed awfully vague about what he did
in his
free time, but Eddie chalked it up to a teenager thing. He’d gone
through the
same stage of feeling like what he
did in his free time was his business
alone.
Eddie
focused on navigating the streets,
but he didn’t mind answering any of the questions Parker asked. Yes, he
was
married, and he really liked his job at the Daily
Bugle. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. Yes, he did have to
agree
Jameson was hard, but that was what made him a good, focused employer,
as far
as he was concerned. Besides, he meant well even if he was a dick about
it.
Parker
gaped. “Did you mean that?”
“What?”
“You…uh,
just called him a dick.”
Eddie shrugged. “I’d be
lying if I said he was all sunshine and
rainbows. The truth is he can be bit
of a dick at times. Look at how he treats his vets. Like Robbie, for
example.”
Parker
frowned, looking out the window
at the pedestrians crossing the street in front of them. “I don’t know…”
“I’m not saying he’s a
bad man, but
obviously he was born without the connection in the brain between being
nice
and being tactful that the majority of humanity has,” Brock pulled into
the
parking lot of the Javits Center,
trying to find a spot, and concentrating. “I’m saying this and I like Jameson. Robbie’s practically his
best friend and even he has to agree.”
“What
was that about professionalism?”
Parker quipped.
Eddie finally found a
spot, and pulled in. He began rummaging in the
back of the car for his camera and press pass, handing an extra one to
Parker.
“Ha, ha, funny. The difference is I respect
Jameson and can understand that him being a dick’s necessary for the
job. He
knows what he wants and gets things done. By the way, tuck in that
shirt.”
“Oops.
Sorry.”
Eddie led the way
toward the entrance of the Lavits
Center, Parker dogging his
heels
and trotting to catch up like a lost puppy. He’d done the smart thing
and left
his old green backpack in Eddie’s car, although he had somehow
scrounged up his
own camera, and was now clutching it in his hands.
“You
take pictures?” Eddie nodded toward the camera. “I thought you were
just a programmer.”
Parker offered a shy
grin. “I sometimes do. I managed to take a few
pictures of Spider-man for Jameson.”
Eddie
almost missed a step at this. He had been trying to
get a picture of
Spider-man for several weeks and here a mere fifteen year old did what
he
couldn’t! Knowing this rankled a bit, actually, especially when it felt
like
he’d been upstaged somehow. “That’s incredible,” Eddie managed,
swallowing. “I’ve
been trying to do the same thing. Spider-man’s really hard to catch on
camera.
It’s like he’s got some weird sixth sense if you even so much as point one at him.”
Parker
gave an embarrassed cough. “It’s
just Parker luck, that’s all. I just got lucky and he didn’t see me.”
“So
what do you like better, photography
or programming?” Eddie asked.
“Photography,”
Parker replied. “But it’s
not as steady compared to programming.”
By now they had reached
the doors, the lobby already crowded with the
press from various news stations and papers. Eddie showed his badge at
the
door, craning his head and trying to see if there was anyone he could
recognize. All of the major news stations were there, and he even saw
some
correspondents from the Daily Globe.
Eddie scowled at this. Not them again. He’d heard all about their shady
tactics
and wanted no part in it, not even when they offered far better pay
than the Daily Bugle to entice him to defect. Jameson
might be a dick, as he’d told Parker, but Brock happened to be loyal to said dick. Hoping the throng of
press was chaotic enough that the Globe correspondents wouldn’t see
him, Eddie
turned to Parker:
“I
don’t know if you know anything about
Quentin Beck, but he’s apparently going to be huge in Hollywood,”
he said. “Some kind of big special effects guy, but he’s also got a bit
of a
criminal track record, which explains the mob here. You bet half of
them
wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the juicy details of his past life.”

Parker glanced around as if hoping to see
Beck himself.

“Criminal track record? Why would it be
such a big deal?”

“In the eighties he tried robbing a bunch of big department
stores. The
final count was something like ten of them,” Eddie paused, “Failed each
time,
but you have to admit the guy was persistent. Anyway, the story is he
turned
over a new leaf and decided he rather work the movie business as a
legit. Don’t
ask me how he got off so easily. He used his, ah, infamy to get funds
and such
for this mystery project. That and apparently he’s also very much
against the
whole masked vigilante deal,” he added offhandedly.

“How come?”

Looking around, Eddie realized that exclusive with Beck would
have to
wait. “Remember that string of robberies? And getting bagged for each
one? A superhero
did the bagging each and every time. I heard this conference might have
something to do with his anti-vigilante view.”
“Oh,”
Parker said, looking troubled.
“Welcome to
the Conference,” a
well-dressed woman said, speaking through a megaphone, voice tinny. “Thank you for being here. If you will please
follow me this way, we can begin filling the room and Mr. Beck will be
begin.”
Eddie
began pushing his way through the crowd, motioning for the kid to
follow him. If he was going to have to shout questions and try to get
some good
pictures, he’d rather do it from the front row than trying to do it in
the back
like an idiot who didn’t think it
proper reporter behavior to elbow your way to the front and get the
money shots.
The crowd filed into the conference room, which looked closer to a
theater than
anything else, the “stage” elaborate and framed on each side by thick,
rich,
royal blue curtains. Eddie positioned himself slightly off to the side,
next to
a WNBC tripod, careful not to jostle the expensive equipment. Not
exactly the
center (the Daily Globe beat him
there), but close enough.

“Press conferences like this usually will have a Q and A session
afterward,” Eddie said to Peter, “Beck will most likely be introduced
by
someone and then he’ll have his say. Basically we just sit through it
and take
pictures until the Q and A. Sometimes they’ll be nice and organized,
but there’s
a chance it could be a free-for-all with people just yelling them out.
Just
look sharp and it should be fine.”

Eddie fell silent as the same woman from before mounted the
stage, a bright
spotlight following her. It seemed rather dramatically over the top,
but he
supposed it fit with Quentin Beck’s profile.
“Thank
you for coming, associated press.
Quentin Beck, a native of Modesto, California,
is glad to be in New York,
and
will be happy to field any questions or comments after the
presentation. He
hopes that you will give him your full attention and consider his
words: he is
confident that you will all agree with the specific points of his
presentation.”
The woman held out a
hand,
sweeping it behind her.
“I
give you…Mr. Beck!”
The lights dimmed
further, the female aide
stepping aside into the darkness as all eyes turned to the front. Brock
raised an
eyebrow as bright green smoke effects began to flood the stage,
resembling
nothing more than a bank of soupy fog rolling in from the right. It
slowly
overtook the front of the stage and oozed down, flowing around the
crowd’s
ankles. Theatrics. Eddie sighed. At
least all he had to do was report objectively on this. Subjectively
he thought this was way over the top and utterly
inane. Next to him, Parker gave a startled sniff, as if smelling
something
weird, and clapped a hand over his nose. Eddie ignored him, watching
the stage.
There
was a flash like lightning; a fountain of more smoke – blue, this
time - flared up in the middle of the stage, backlit by the light and
illuminating the figure of a man suddenly standing there. As the blue
smoke
billowed and dissipated into those closest, the man stepped forward and
bowed.
“I
am Quentin Beck,” Beck said. Eddie
couldn’t help the beginnings of an incredulous smirk. Was he wearing a cape? “And I have a message today that I
think you will find it most imperative to spread to greater New
York.”

He then began to ramble on about some kind of movie, as well as
some
kind of invention that would “revolutionize’ the world of entertainment
for a
good half hour. In the middle of it he suddenly launched into a tirade
against
“the costumed anti-heroes” of the world and how everyone was better off
without
them. Eddie took mental notes, knowing Jameson would eat up this
business about
anti-superheroes and love it. It was when Beck launched into the
specifics of New York’s
superheroes and how he would turn New York
against them that Eddie noticed one of two
things:

For some reason he felt really weird.
Lightheaded. Tipsy, even.
Was he imagining it or
was the
room starting to tilt pleasantly?
   And
second, where was Parker?

Eddie felt nice and heavy, a bit drowsy
(though he couldn’t understand why, considering he’d run through
several Red
Bulls on the way to the Bugle offices), and it seemed somehow right to
just
turn back to Beck and listen to his rather lovely speech. And it
suddenly did seem to be a good speech, even
though in the back of Eddie’s mind he knew it to be utterly ridiculous
and
chock full of logical fallacies. But somehow he couldn’t muster up the
ability
to care.
“And
now we have Spider-man,”
Beck was saying, gazing out over the increasingly glassy faces of the
press in
front of him. For some reason he was now wearing a fishbowl on his
head, Eddie
noticed, and thought it was the most handsome, shiniest thing he’d ever
seen in
his life.
Beck continued to scold
the
silent room, shaking a finger as one would at a child: “You allow him
to run
across your beautiful city and yet he preys on the everyday man in the
name of
help where it isn’t needed. For shame, New York.
For shame….but now I will be there to help you, beautiful New
York, to be rid of this menace. He will be an
example
to all other masked vigilantes out there. I aim to kill him, you see,”
Beck
smiled benignly. “And I think you all should help me, starting with
you, the
associated press.”

Eddie found himself agreeing without knowing why. He meant to
turn to
Parker and asked if he agreed with
these rather salient points when he suddenly remembered the kid had
vanished.
What was it Jameson said? I want you
glued to his hip and inseparable. No excuses.

That applied to Eddie too, didn’t it?

Parker was his responsibility.

Concern flooded into the blond, dashing away for the moment the
feeling
of utter contentment and faith in the speech. Where was
Parker? Now that he wasn’t entirely focused on Beck, he found
himself growing increasingly worried, and baffled as to why his body
seemed to
not want to obey him. It felt like he was about to faint only he was
still
awake, treading the edge of awareness. Confused by his lethargy and
starting to
feel decidedly alarmed without being able to say exactly what was
wrong, Brock
began to push through the other, unresisting reporters, scanning the
crowd for
Parker’s mess of shaggy brown hair.

He wasn’t here. Peter
wasn’t here! Eddie staggered
forward, forgetting about Beck and his far-too-attractive fishbowl
head.
“Aim to kill me? Might
want to step in
line, pal.”
Eddie turned at the alien sound of a voice
that wasn’t Beck’s hypnotic one, and
froze, swaying and feeling like he was about to tilt over with the way
the room
was spinning and turning. The owner of the voice was a blue and red
costumed
form, wiry and leanly muscled, and currently perched impossibly on the
ceiling.
Upside down.

Spider-man.

The superhero dropped from the ceiling and landed neatly in a
crouch on
a camera tripod a few meters from Beck.
“I’m
probably going to sound really,
really stupid, but I’ve got to ask,” Spider-man said. “Is that a fishbowl on your head?”

Beck – if that was even Beck, he wasn’t
dressed like him at all aside from the purple cape – stepped away from
the
podium, his cape swirling at armored ankles. “So you finally showed up.”
“You
the next big bad supervillian, Mysterio? It’s kind of hard to take you
seriously with that on your head, you know,” Spider-man quipped.

Beck flared, his hands glowing red. “My
name isn’t ‘Mysterio’, you insolent brat!”
Spider-man
tapped a finger to his chin.
“I don’t know, I rather like Mysterio. It’s got a great ring to it - Jeez, everyone’s a critic!” he jumped out of
the way of a fireball that singed the curtain behind him, landing right
next to
Beck and going right up to the glass dome covering his head. “Don’t
tell me you
came to kick my butt all the way from California
and you didn’t even think of a name?”
Another fireball,
easily dodged with a
flip backward, and then Mysterio turned toward the crowd of enthralled
reporters, pointing his still smoking gauntlets at them. Spider-man
stopped.
“How
would you like to fight several hundred, Spider-man?” Mysterio
demanded. “New York
already hates
you. I’m sure these fine people would like to show you their hate up
close at
my word. Or maybe you would like to just see them fry rather than fight
them
all? That gas you see around them just so happens to be highly
flammable, and I
imagine they would be quite happy to burn as they rend you limb from
limb.”

That gave Spider-man pause. His shoulders slumped in defeat. “So
what is
it you really want?”
“I
want you. You will hand yourself
over to me and I will unmask you for the fraud you are in public. I
want
everyone to know that masked freaks like you are blights on society and
normal,
hard-working people!”
Spider-man
hung his head and then slowly held
out his arms. “Okay, you win, Beck. Just…just don’t hurt all these
people.”
“So
even you can see reason,” Mysterio
sniffed. Reaching into the podium, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs
and
approached Spider-man with them. Eddie couldn’t help but watch, unable
to turn
away. There was something strange about Spider-man, like he’d met him
before,
and it had something to do with that insanely young
voice. But the thought sank into the lethargy and Eddie only
had the strength to try to push toward the stage, every now and then
sagging
against another unresponsive body as he wobbled on feet that weren’t
his.

Mysterio was almost at Spider-man, his back
straight and triumphant.
Spider-man
continued to hold out his hands
as Mysterio slapped on the first end of the heavy duty handcuffs onto
his
wrist, the superhero’s face tilted toward the left green armored
gauntlet. “Hey,
I just want to say something real quick, if it’s okay with you.”
“What?”

Spider-man looked up, his webbed mask
mirrored in Mysterio’s helmet.
“You
know what I think? I think you’re a
big fat fake!” Spider-man ripped his
hands free and lunged for the other man.

“You-!”
Mysterio
slammed up against the wall with
an audible crack of thick glass meeting brick. A section of it
continued to
fracture and fell away from the dome, tinkling, and revealing the face
of the
man underneath. Spider-man leaned close, holding him up easily several
feet
from the floor by the front of his reinforced shirt
“Next
time you showboat, make sure you’ve
got real weapons to use against me! Your gauntlets don’t shoot anything
but
smoke, Mysterio!”
Beck
struggled to break free, eyes blazing
with fury. “Are you sure you want to be threatening me, brat? The
reporters out
there will do what I say – that was no bluff.”
“I’ll
take my chances,” Spider-man
returned. “Since your big scary fireballs weren’t so scary after all,
just
fancy pyrotechnics.”
“Kill
h-”
A
gloved fist hammered into the rest of the glass, shattering it, and
impacted with Beck’s face. “Yeah, let’s not.” Spider-man let go of the
unconscious man, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground with an
audible
thunk. There was a loud whoosh and
Beck’s right gauntlet abruptly lit up,
sending a very real flamethrower’s gout up into the curtains and
setting them
alight.
“Oops,”
said Spider-man.

Eddie’s head didn’t feel any clearer and
his body was still torn between reviving and passing out, but he was pretty sure the theater suddenly being
on fire was a bad thing.
That “oops” hadn’t been very encouraging
either.
Spider-man
shouted to the dazed crowd.
“Everyone please head to the exits in an orderly fashion if you can!
And by
fashion, I mean just get out of here!”
The throng of reporters
dissolved into a
panicked frenzy as some of them began snapping out of their daze,
staggering
drunkenly this way and that, bumping into another and tripping over
each other
and camera equipment. Smoke – real smoke – began to billow into the
room as
Eddie sought to fight his way through the reporters and correspondents
streaming past him in a disorganized stampede, the room swirling in a
way that
wasn’t at all pleasant, as it was earlier, and was now just nauseating.
He had
to find Parker. The thought kept circling in his head. Parker was his responsibility and he wasn’t going
to disappoint Jameson.
After
what seemed like eternity between his own body’s weakness and the
oily black smoke darkening the room, Eddie reached the stage, where
Spider-man
was throwing the unconscious Mysterio over his shoulder.
“Spider-man!”
Eddie slurred.

The superhero jerked up in surprise, almost tossing Mysterio
back onto
the floor. “Eddie!”

Eddie bulldozed over the fact Spider-man
somehow knew his name. It seemed like a passing curiosity; he was
preoccupied
with just trying to keep that webbed mask in focus since it was so
determined
to swim dizzily in his vision. “I…’s a kid. Peter Parker. Gotta…gotta
find
‘im.”

Spider-man seemed to relax. “I’ll find him. You just get
outside, okay?”

The blond shook his head. Spider-man wasn’t understanding,
dammit. The
kid was still out there and he couldn’t be expected to know what he
looked like.
He was just saying that to get Eddie out of here and didn’t understand
he
wasn’t going anywhere without the kid in sight and in tow. Spider-man
didn’t
understand that it was Eddie’s job to look out after Parker and make
sure he
got back to Jameson in one piece.
Eddie
decided to go look for
Parker himself, and had even turned to leave when his body finally made
up its
mind and said screw this, we’re done for
now, and promptly pitched him backward into nothingness.
“Breathe,
Eddie!”
The
next thing he was aware of was a
sensation of swimming, only it wasn’t his body doing it, it was his
brain and
it was pretty damn weird to have your brain swimming in what looked
more like a
thick pool of oil than anything else. It was really
hard to breathe too, his chest constricting
as something pressed up and down on it in a steady pumping motion. It
felt an
awful lot like a fist, now that he thought about it. What was a fist
doing
hammering away at his chest? Even stranger was the feeling of someone bending close to his numbed face,
pinching his nose (which made it even harder to breathe, in Eddie’s
opinion),
tilting back his head, and pressing their mouth to his.
Air rushed into his
lungs with
the contact. His chest expanded. The mouth didn’t taste particularly
good –
like ashes, as if something was burning – but it gave him the priceless
ability
to breathe.
Even
on the unconscious level, Eddie
was hungry for the next contact.
“Come on, breathe,”
a grunt, as someone returned their attention back to pumping
urgently up and down on his chest. “I know you can do it, Eddie! You
had the guts to
call Jameson a dick, so how’s a stupid little fire going to stop you?
Breathe
for me now, come on.”
His
vision swam into some focus as the
giver of air bent down again after pumping at his chest for a bit. His
closed
eyelids briefly flickered. For a delirious second, Eddie caught a
glimpse of a
mask, red and ribbed with black webs, pulled up just over someone’s
nose and
revealing a strong, young jaw and firm lips that were soon pressed over
his and
breathing for him. When that warm mouth closed over his slack one, and
shared
the precious air, it seemed right,
and a basic, instinctual part of him was glad to take, greedy for more.
Needing
more.
Suddenly
he could feel his
lungs doing what they were supposed to be doing in the first place and
breathing for him. A choking cough wracked his frame as he sucked in
his first
breath for himself, gasping, eyes closed, and still walking that fine
line between
consciousness and oblivion. Eddie felt his body lift from the ground as
he
struggled to take in more fresh air, feeling it pierce into his lungs
and yet
desperately gulping more. It tasted of the same ashes as the giver’s
lips.
“He’s
okay now,” Spider-man’s voice
floated above him. “I think he needs space, so let’s give it to him,
people.”
As he sucked in
trembling breaths that grew increasingly stronger, Eddie
became gradually aware of other voices around him, the painful wail of
sirens, and
a bizarre sound like a waterfall in the distance. Someone dropped down
next to
him and began softly slapping his cheek with a warm hand; gentle taps,
really,
but they guided him back to consciousness all the same.
“Come
on, Eddie,” Spider-man pleaded. “Come on, you can do it.”

Eddie’s gray eyes drifted open, and the
world around him slowly wavered back into focus, with blurs resolving
into
shapes and finally into things he could actually recognize. He noted
with dazed
surprise that it wasn’t Spider-man, like he’d thought, at his side, but
gawky,
clueless Peter Parker peering down at him with those utterly average
brown eyes
of his. For some reason Brock’s eyes slid down from the kid’s worried,
soot-streaked
face down to his shirt and almost smiled, seeing a glimpse of red and
blue, and
not registering its implications:
“Y-your
shirt’s untucked,” Eddie rasped.

Parker broke out into a relieved grin that lit up his dirty face
even as
he hurriedly tucked it back in. “You’re okay! I was really worried
about you.”
Eddie
gave another cough, his
head starting to clear: you, it said,
are in really crappy shape right now.
“You made it out? How?”
“Spider-man,”
Parker said quickly. “He found me and took me out of there.
He said you were looking for me.”
The blonde resolved to
just lie there for
a while. The pavement under his back didn’t feel too good, but he was
more than
happy to relish the idea of simply breathing
again. “What’s going on?” Eddie asked, disoriented. “The last thing I
remember
is…” he trailed off helplessly. Not much. What he did remember was the
curtains
on fire and that ominous “oops”.
Parker glanced up, then
back down. “As soon as people saw smoke from the
Lavits, they called the cops and everything. They’re trying to put out
the
fires and tend to everyone.”
“And….”
Brock sucked in a shaky breath,
relieved he’d stopped coughing. His voice was still shot to hell
though, coming
out in a tortured whisper. “And what about Quentin Beck?”
“Police
got him, I think. Hopefully he
stays behind bars this time.”
Parker
hesitated and then spoke up again, looking down, his cheeks
flushing as if ashamed. “Eddie…just so you know, I wanted to tell you
that
someone tried to break into your car while we were in there. They broke
one of
the windows. The back one. I guess they saw my backpack there and
thought
something valuable might be in there, and tried punching through it.”

Anger was probably a good idea, but right now he was too damn
exhausted
to care. Eddie managed a feeble nod.

“Was there?”
“Was
there what?”
“Was
there anything valuable?” Eddie gazed
up at Parker’s face. “In your backpack.”
The
teenager looked away, and shook his
head, still looking ashamed for some reason. “No, there wasn’t anything
valuable. I’m sorry about the window, Eddie.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Parker looked as if he wanted to argue the point but then
thought better
of it, settling for nodding instead. They listened to the sound of the
fire
trucks – the source of that roaring sound like a waterfall – combating
the
blaze in the Lavits Center.
Eddie debated the merits of trying to sit up now, but Parker held out
his hand
in a no, stay gesture, pressing him
back down gently as if he was made of
glass.
“You probably should take it easy, Eddie,” he said,
reaching up and
wiping unconsciously at the big black soot spot on his cheek. It only
succeeded
in smearing it around even worse.
Eddie relaxed back with
a weak sigh. A
part of him wanted to jump up and get the scoop on whatever the hell
happened,
like a good reporter should, but he just didn’t think he had it in him.
It was
hard enough to even stay awake and he had a monster of a headache,
nevermind
the fact his chest hurt and his mouth felt numb, bruised and aching. I have to stay awake, he thought,
looking up at Parker’s boyish, soot-covered face. He couldn’t go
scaring the
poor kid, especially on a day like today.
He
managed a faint smile. “Some first day
on the field, huh, Parker?”
Peter
Parker grinned
crookedly.

“You’ve got a very exciting job, Mr. Eddie Brock.”

To be continued....

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- 5
- 6
- 7
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Black Sustenance