2007 started with one of those polar cold waves that freeze your very will to live, but inside Midtown High's lab, the atmosphere was burning hot. Winter break was over, and we had only a few weeks left before the New York City Science Fair. The grand prize was a research scholarship to the Baxter Building labs.
Knowing perfectly well that in a few months Reed Richards and his crew would head into space to get their superpowers, winning that competition would serve to establish a relationship with the Fantastic Four before their accident, and it would also give me a space to develop a few invention ideas I had floating in my head. Plus, it would allow me to keep an eye on Reed, because as we already know from the comics, he has a rather sketchy track record under the guise of "human evolution."
Ned was in the corner of the classroom, muttering things about electromagnetism, and Gwen was a few tables away, using a microscope. I, for my part, was replicating a high-density magnetorheological fluid, or in plain English, smart liquid armor. It's a compound that stays liquid but turns completely solid when it receives a high-energy kinetic impact or a magnetic field.
Truth be told, I had started manufacturing this project in my room weeks ago, long before I even found out about the science fair's existence. In early November, a small-time thug got lucky and one of his bullets grazed my shoulder in a Brooklyn alley. The pain was so unbearable and left me yelping in such an undignified way that I promised myself I wasn't going to feel anything like that ever again in my fucking life. So, I started cooking liquid armor in secret to pad the inner layers of my suit, making sure that next time I wouldn't end up with a bullet in my body.
Even though everything seemed to be going normally over the last few weeks, the tension of what happened on December 24th still floated in the air whenever I was alone with Gwen. At that moment, I walked over to Gwen's table to look for an ammonium reagent and noticed how her posture tensed up. A faint pink blush painted her ears as she recalled the incident.
I felt a spark of nervousness that I didn't know where it came from or why it made me feel that way. "Easy, Peter. It's no time to lose focus now. Concentrate." I reproached myself internally, taking a deep breath to keep myself calm.
Gwen cleared her throat slightly and adjusted her glasses, trying to mask her shyness with a determined look.
"I see your workstation looks like a high-security lab, Peter. What are you cooking in there?" she asked, glancing sideways at my test tubes.
"Hold on, let me cook." I replied with a slight smile, leaning against the edge of the counter. "I heard Reed Richards rewards originality, so I don't plan on holding back."
Gwen let out a small laugh, crossing her arms with a competitive spark that was very typical of her.
"I'm glad to hear that, Peter. I'd hate to win that scholarship competing against someone who isn't taking it seriously. Get ready, because I'm not going to make it easy for you."
"I expect nothing less. May the best win." I returned the challenge with a nod, right before she went back to her microscope.
School was becoming an strangely fun place by my standards, but the city was a completely different monster.
And the first major headache had a first and last name: J. Jonah Jameson. The head of the Daily Bugle had taken my outings as a personal affront, and his attacks were already bordering on obsession, as characterizes every single version of him.
Every morning, his shrill voice echoed in taxis and newsstands, spreading his usual venom through the city's microphones.
"That guy is an absolute fraud, New Yorkers! A public menace in tights!" Jameson would yell, slamming his desk. "They are feeding the ego of a lunatic with obvious mental problems who hides behind a mask because he can't deal with the reality of showing his face to the world. The police should lock that insect in a psych ward before it's too late!"
I had patiently put up with his slanders for the more than two and a half months I had been active as Spider-Man. But his anti-Spider-Man rhetoric was working way too well. I patrolled the entire city from one end to the other, dealing with several gangs at once to maintain order, but people in regular neighborhoods were already starting to look at me with suspicion because of his lies. I decided it was time to put a stop to his defamation campaign in the most direct way possible.
That same night, I waited until the Bugle building slowly emptied out. I slipped into Jonah's office without making the slightest sound while he was away, spinning a dense web in one of the ceiling corners, right within the shadows. I stayed up there on the web, blending into the room's darkness.
Minutes later, J. Jonah Jameson returned to his post. He was hunched under the pale light of his desk lamp, shirt sleeves rolled up, reviewing with annoyance the drafts for the next day's front page. The main headline read in large, menacing letters: "A MASKED FRAUD? SPIDER-MAN TERRORIZES NEW YORK."
Jameson took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling with a frustrated huff. He had spent more than two months using the radio and the presses to unmask the webbed insect, but public opinion remained split. For a man who believed in due process, watching an anonymous vigilante patrol the entire city, dealing with multiple gangs at once above the authorities, was a direct insult to the law and its institutions.
The turning of pages was the only sound in the office. At least until a voice was heard from one of the room's corners.
"Good evening, Mr. Jameson." Spider-Man said.
Jonah's instincts froze. The cigar remained suspended halfway between his lips. A draft of cold air, coming from an open window he distinctly recalled locking, ran down his neck. With a sudden panic that sent his pulse racing violently, he slowly lifted his gaze toward the upper corner of the ceiling, right between the heavy shadows cast by the city's buildings over his office.
The air escaped his lungs.
There lay the threat. Perched, crouching right in the middle of a thick web woven into the ceiling, staring at him from the deep shadows with his opaque lenses gleaming ghostlike under the lamp's reflection. The contrast of his silhouette against the darkness instilled pure terror.
Jonah opened his mouth, but panic prevented him from speaking. Spider-Man had gotten into his office without him noticing. If the spider had wanted to, Jonah would have ended up exactly like the common criminals who turned up strung up and bloodied all over the city. He was completely at his mercy.
"Two and a half months, Jameson. I've spent all this time putting up with you calling me a fraud and a lunatic on the radio and in the newspapers." the creature's voice echoed from above, low, freezing, and distorted by the fabric, chilling the office air. "I know perfectly well why you do it. I know your hatred isn't toward my person or what I do, but because I wear a mask. I know what happened to your wife in the past, Jameson. I know a masked criminal murdered her."
Jameson didn't know what to say. The mention of his greatest trauma struck him like a punch straight to the stomach, completely wiping the rage from his face. His hands shook slightly, and his cigar ash dropped onto the table runner while the silhouette on the ceiling continued with surgical coldness.
"I am very sorry for your loss, but your generalization is stupid and petty. You lump me in with the city's scum just for wearing a piece of cloth on my face, while I risk my life stopping criminals so that the people of this city can sleep soundly at night."
Spider-Man loosened his grip on the web and, with an inhuman and imperceptible speed to Jameson, slid toward the open window, dropping his final words before losing himself to the empty night.
"Don't waste your influence on petty slanders against me. Either you join me to wipe out this city's criminal scum, or you get out of my way."
The New York wind whipped the office curtains, breaking the trance. Jameson was left alone in the dim light, shaking slightly in his seat with his gaze lost in Manhattan's buildings. The air still smelled of tobacco, but the Bugle editor's usual arrogance had vanished.
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Once again, I apologize for the delay in uploading the chapter; the reason is that I had to rewrite it. Also, I've had various commitments over the last few days, and my university break has come to an end, so I've had less time to write chapters.