AndyC

Avengers: Heroes United! - a semi-casual 'Tabletop-Lite' superhero RPG

For this game, only canon characters. I'm not sticking to any one particular version of the Marvel universe, just a sort of "here's what everyone's more or less familiar with" take-- so, f'rinstance, if someone wants to do the MCU Iron Man they can, but that doesn't mean the person playing Spidey necessarily has to play MCU Spidey.

Avengers: Heroes United! - a semi-casual 'Tabletop-Lite' superhero RPG

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>
It’s like Andy has collected some kind of RP-Finity Gauntlet. My word.

@Inkarnate

Fun isn't something one considers when balancing the RP-verse. But this....does put a smile on my face....

(says Andy before the line is inexplicably cut from the theatrical release)

Avengers: Heroes United! - a semi-casual 'Tabletop-Lite' superhero RPG

I'm probably gonna do mostly first-come first-serve with characters, maybe a short application just to make sure folks can write coherently.

Avengers: Heroes United! - a semi-casual 'Tabletop-Lite' superhero RPG

Greetings, true believers! Prepare for an exciting new(ish) take on roleplaying Earth's Mightiest Heroes! It'll have action, excitement, mystery, monsters, and more! And the best part is, it's all starring YOU!

Stan Lee-esque shilling aside, I'd like to try a slightly different take on the standard superhero roleplay by introducing a mystery component: a 'Mastermind' villain played by the GM. Like in a murder-mystery RP, the Mastermind's identity is secret, and it is the heroes' job to expose and defeat them, while the Mastermind engineers various crises to make the heroes' job more difficult.

---

RULES:

-The game world has a predetermined Stability Level, which is threatened by Crises perpetrated by the Mastermind. If this Stability Level reaches zero, the world collapses into anarchy and the game ends.
-The Mastermind has a set Threat Level, a pool of resources they can spend to throw Crises at the Heroes. Each Crisis has its own Threat Level, depending on how many points the Mastermind spends from their own Threat pool, and takes away a corresponding amount of points from the world's Stability Level if it goes unresolved. A Threat Level 1 would be something minor like a simple bank robbery, while a Threat Level 20 might be a cosmic incursion from Galactus. The Mastermind can have up to three Crises going at any one time.
-A Crisis's Threat Level equals the amount of unique posts the heroes have to write before the Crisis can be considered resolved. Each post must contain the character making a genuine effort to either resolve the Crisis or at least mitigate its side effects (panicked crowds, falling debris, etc), and should be roughly between three and ten full paragraphs. The heroes have one real-world day per each point of Threat Level to resolve the Crisis (a Threat Level 7 Crisis, for example, has a real-world time limit of one week to resolve). Upon the resolution of a Crisis, the heroes will gain a clue towards the Mastermind's identity.
-During a Crisis, the Mastermind may choose to make the heroes' jobs more difficult by posting an Interrupt. This is a complication caused by the Crisis-- an out-of-control train, a crashing airplane, etc.-- that the heroes must divert attention from the main Crisis to resolve immediately. Resolving an Interrupt does not count towards the amount of posts needed to resolve the Crisis, but if the Interrupt is not resolved, 1 point is taken from the world's Stability Level. The Mastermind can only play Interrupts equal to the amount of clues the heroes have already collected.
-The game ends when either the heroes expose and defeat the Mastermind, or the world's Stability Level reaches zero, allowing the Mastermind to complete their own master plan.

---

Example:

The Mastermind hires Bullseye to assassinate a high-profile target at the UN Building in New York; this is designated a Threat Level 5. Captain America, Spider-Man, and Black Panther respond, and over the course of two days, they write three posts, where Cap and Panther engage the assassin while Spidey works crowd control.

Meanwhile, the Mastermind stages a heist at the Triskelion in Washington, DC, designating it a Threat Level 2. Hawkeye and Black Widow both investigate, quickly putting up two posts to search the SHIELD facility for signs of the intruders. With this Crisis quickly resolved, they gain a clue-- namely, that the Mastermind sent the intruders to steal the original schematics for Vision-- but this also gives the Mastermind an Interrupt.

Back in New York, the Mastermind uses this Interrupt to have Bullseye shoot out a lighting fixture, which threatens to fall on a group of diplomats. Black Panther has to break away from the fight to save the endangered civilians, while Cap gets in a fourth post to continue the fight with Bullseye, until finally Spider-Man chimes in with a fifth and final post to web the mercenary up. The heroes interrogate Bullseye, who gives them their next clue: that whoever the Mastermind is, he isn't human.

(In this instance, it would eventually be revealed that the Mastermind is Loki, and he is trying to recover the Mind Stone to reform his staff)

---

AVENGERS: HEROES UNITED

Character Sheet

Player Name: (Provide whatever name or handle you wish to be called)
Character Name and Alias: (Provide both the character's hero name and their civilian identity, so players may distinguish which incarnation of the character is being used)
Origin and Brief Bio: (Provide one paragraph summarizing the character's origin and the highlights of their career up to this point)
Powers and Abilities: (Describe what the character can do)
Brief Sample Post: (Provide between two to five complete paragraphs showcasing how this character would be in action)

Marvel Knights

Trinity Church Cemetery
Corner of Broadway and Wall Street, Lower Manhattan

"Harry, what the hell are we doing here?" I say, stumbling as we jump the old wrought-iron fence and slink into the shadows between the rows of headstones. "I hate this place."

I never liked cemeteries to begin with, but once upon a time, I used to think this particular one was at least interesting in terms of the city's history. Alexander Hamilton's buried here. So are Ralph Waldo Emerson and Ed Koch, and a number of Senators and Generals and Mayors.

The large, squat marble tomb at the top of a small hillock, built just over a year ago, is why this place really makes my stomach turn. And of course, that seems to be where he's leading us.

"We're here for a very important lesson," Harry says in a half-whisper, tucking the pair of liquor bottles close to his chest as he moves from cover to cover like he's in the stealth section of a bad video game. "Keep quiet until I know the coast is clear."

I could've told him the coast was about as clear as it could possibly get-- there's no one around as far as the eye can see. And failing that, my suit would tell us if there's any approaching danger long before even my Spider-Sense would. But this whole thing was Harry's idea, and he's too drunk to listen, so I let him take point in this little commando raid of his.

The tomb is stark white, practically gleaming even in the near pitch-black of the cemetery, still too new to have begun to weather. It used to require regular cleaning after protesters would attempt to deface it, but eventually those incensed by its presence either gave up or got bored, so now it sits undisturbed, its very presence an insult that no one bothers to take offense at anymore.

In a bold, Roman-esque font, the name OSBORN is displayed on a stone held by two pillars. Below it is a vault, and within that is the corpse of the man who ruined our lives.

Norman Osborn, 1964-2017 reads the plaque to his vault. Brilliant But Troubled.

Harry sets one of the liquor bottles down on the grass, unscrews the cap from the other, and takes a long pull.

"'Brilliant But Troubled,'" he says in a bitter, mocking tone as he wipes a dribble of whiskey from his lips. "That's what they keep saying about him, over and over. Spencer Smythe came up with it-- one of dad's little henchmen from the lab. They make it sound like he was crazy, like he couldn't help what he was doing. Poor Norman, think of what he could have done if he wasn't so....'troubled.'"

He sits down on the grass in front of the tomb, staring with murderous intent at the tomb.

"I could've stopped it," he says after a long, cold silence. "The Goblin, the murders, Gwen, all of it. I had the chance to stop all of it."

"What do you mean?" I ask, pacing uncomfortably behind him.

"Remember back in sixth grade, when I went off to boarding school in England?" he asks. I nod my head. "The night before, he and my mom were arguing about something, I don't remember what. She busts into my room, grabs me by the wrist, says we're leaving now. I'd never seen her so scared in my life. But I knew why she was so scared."

"Did...did he....hurt you before?"

Harry doesn't answer. He just takes another swig of whiskey.

"We get to the living room and Dad's just standing there in front of the door," he continues. "Doesn't look angry, doesn't raise his hand. Just stands there, daring Mom to try and move past him. She crumples to the floor like he'd shot her with a tranquilizer dart-- she knows she's not going anywhere. I don't run to her side to help her up. Instead, I run back to the master bedroom, to the nightstand by their bed.....where Dad keeps his pistol."

There's another long pause, and I can see Harry's face twist with a dozen emotions, none of them good.

"I grab the gun, and when I turn back he's standing in the doorway. A few years earlier, he taught me how to shoot. Said it was important that a man knew to respect that kind of power so they wouldn't do something stupid with it. I point the gun at him, pull back the hammer. All I have to do is squeeze the trigger. He doesn't panic. He doesn't get angry. He doesn't even seem to care that I'm about to blow a hole in him. He just.....looks at me, with this look of......disappointment. Like I came home with a C on my report card. He says 'Now son, let's talk,' and I.....I listen. I put the gun down, and I listen to him lecture me for nearly an hour. And it all just sounds so perfectly reasonable."

He takes another drink.

"Next thing I know, I'm on a plane to Manchester, being groomed to become a business mogul," he says. "I don't even get to come home for Mom's funeral. He doesn't let me come home til he's satisfied that I'm 'better.' That I'm more like him."

On shaky legs, Harry begins to stand, and he staggers over to the vault.

"That's what assholes like Spencer Smythe and the Board of Directors don't get," he says. "Norman....he could make you do things.....really awful things you'd never normally do. Make you leave your mother alone with him after she tried to run for her life. Make you keep company secrets even after those secrets led to dozens of people dying. Make you--.....never mind. Point is, Norman Osborn wasn't crazy. He was evil."

"So.....you think he made Gwen--"

"I dunno," he interrupts. "That's not the point, anyway. See, he wanted me to be like him. And I hated his guts for it, but I ended up being more like him than I wanna admit."

A drunken grin crawls across his face.

"Thing is, Pete, I'm a bit of a super-villain, too," he says like he's admitting some dirty secret. "I've got me a master plan and everything. Those stuffed shirts at OsCorp want to sell off the company assets, divide up everything and auction it to the highest bidder. But I'm not gonna let them. I'm gonna make sure it all goes to me. Every project in the laboratories, every share of company stock, every cent of its net worth, every piece of furniture in that building."

That drunken grin turns dark.

"And then I'm gonna burn it all down," he says. "I'm gonna fire every asshole on the payroll, I'm gonna flush every penny down the toilet, and I'm gonna have the building demolished with everything inside. I'm gonna burn the Osborn name and everything it stands for to ashes and laugh every step of the way. And you wanna know why?"

I shrug. "Why, Harry?"

"Because fuck Norman Osborn, that's why," he says. "Fuck Norman Osborn, fuck his company, fuck his 'legacy,' and fuck his name. Fuck every asshole who stood by and let him threaten and hurt and kill all those people. Fuck all those superheroes who could have put him down but let him blow up half of downtown so they could play costumed grab-ass with him. And fuck anyone who makes excuses for someone like that by saying shit like 'Brilliant But Troubled.'"

With that, he hurls the bottle of whiskey at his father's tomb as hard as he can, the glass shattering against the marble and splashing liquor all over his plaque. Not satisfied, he takes a few paces towards the vault, and spits on it, a wad of saliva and phlegm smacking against the engraved name.

"....you done?" I ask as he storms back towards me.

"I am," he says. "You're not. C'mon, we've got one more stop while we're here."

It takes us a few minutes to hike down the hill and around a few bends to reach our destination. Neither of us says a word along the way. We both know where we're going.

The headstone is small and simple, just like the one right next to it for her father. There's already a little bit of mold starting to grow on one side.

Gwendolyn Maxine Stacy, 1999-2017.

That's all it says. No words about who she was, what she was like. Nothing about how she helped uncover the Green Goblin's secret identity at the cost of her own life. Nothing about how she wanted to get her doctorate and work for Reed Richards and company. No words about her being the valedictorian in our class, or being the drummer in a punk-rock garage band, or being the undisputed champion of Smash Bros. at Empire State. Nothing about how she kept a tally of how many times one of her puns could make me groan out loud. Nothing about how she'd follow a long, deep kiss with a small peck on the nose. Nothing, just a name and some numbers.

"I don't wanna do this, Harry," I say as he offers me the other liquor bottle. "I know what those pictures mean, what the news is saying, but I--"

"Pete, you've gotta listen to me," he says, pushing the bottle towards me until he's shoving me backwards with it. "You're one of the nicest guys in Manhattan, and that's never gotten you anything but screwed. People have been doing you wrong all your life, and you still keep sticking up for them. Don't be that guy who sugar-coats Norman Osborn as 'Brilliant But Troubled.' Fuck that. Fuck everyone who's done you wrong, Pete. And if those pictures are legit, and she really did cheat on you with him, then you know what? Fuck Gwen Stacy, too."

I look down at the sloshing bottle of amber liquid, and I snatch it out of Harry's hands. "All right," I say with a nod.

He pats me on the shoulder. "Good man. I'll give you a minute, some privacy while you do what you've gotta do. Meanwhile, I'm gonna go find a tree and mark my territory."

As he runs off into the night, I open the bottle and take a gulp of the smoky, stinging drink. It doesn't really affect me like it's supposed to-- one of the perks of enhanced healing includes burning through chemical influence faster than most-- but the bitterness and pain of the whiskey itself is enough to put me in the right mood as I approach Gwen's grave.

"....I don't get it," I say, pacing as I look down at the headstone. "I don't want to believe what they're saying about you, I can't get my head around it, but......but I saw those pictures of you and him, and I just......how could you? I trusted you, cared about you, I loved you more than anything! And you just--.....what, you couldn't help it? Did he get his hooks into you somehow, or blackmail you, or--....or....."

My hand starts to squeeze against the glass bottle.

"....or were you just laughing at me behind my back, like everyone else?" I growl, my muscles starting to tense up. The suit practically shivers with excitement, and I can't help myself. "Everything I felt for you, did any of it mean anything? Or was it just a setup for the universe playing another big joke on poor Peter Parker? I would've moved the world for you, Gwen. I would've died for you. And for you to go behind my back, with him, it--.....it makes me sick to even think about it."

Now instead of pacing, I'm stalking back and forth, like an animal about to strike its prey. My hand is shaking as it raises the whiskey bottle to my mouth, and I take another gulp.

"I don't know what's real anymore," I say, seething. "For a year now I've felt like I'm in a nightmare I can't wake up from. And just when I think it can't get worse, I find out that everything I loved was a lie. That all along, you were a lying, cheating, backstabbing wh--"

*KRRRSSSSHHH!*

The bottle shatters in my grip, shards of glass embedding into my palm. Pain shoots through my arm and I double over, clutching my mangled hand. Immediately the suit works its way into my wounds, black goo pushing out the glass and soaking up the burning alcohol, knitting the flesh back together. By morning, there won't even be a scar. Nothing to mark the pain but my memory.

"Hey, mazel tov!" Harry shouts at the sound of the glass breaking. Stumbling out from the shadows, he has his arms out wide in celebration. "I knew you had it in ya, Pete! Feel better?"

I don't answer. I just clutch my fist close, hiding the black goo of the alien suit as it holds my hand together.

"Well, you will, trust me," he says, patting me on the back. "I think there's a few bars not far from here that are still open, how about we--?"

Harry shuts up when he sees flashing red-and-blue lights coming from the road, the wail of a police siren. For a second, he lays low in case we've been spotted. The siren begins to fade, however, as the car speeds off towards Uptown.

A few seconds later, it's followed by another police siren. And another, and another and another. Something serious is going down.

"Huh, that's weird," Harry shrugs. "Anyway, we should--"

Harry turns to me, but at that point, I'm already gone. I've slid back into the shadows, letting the suit take hold.

Peter Parker's had the chance to let out his aggression. Wherever all those cops are going, chances are there's an opportunity for Venom to let a little out as well.

---

14th Street, Chelsea
Upper West Side, Manhattan

"This is what you get!" shouted Joe 'Hammerhead' Lorenzini as he hurled a half-empty bottle overhead. It arced high, the flame on the soaked rag stuffed into its top standing out against the night sky, before it crashed through the window of a brownstone tenement building, the room inside erupting into a blaze. All down the block, the air carried the sound of car alarms, of roaring fires, glass breaking, and people screaming.

A dozen armored cars, flanked by nearly a hundred hardened criminals armed with everything from pipes and chains to assault rifles and Molotov cocktails, paraded down the streets of Chelsea in a show of force. Smashing storefronts, spraying bullets haphazardly into apartment buildings, terrorizing the citizens inside. Reminding everyone that the Maggia syndicate was still a force to be reckoned with.

As the soldiers and enforcers whooped and howled as they caused mayhem, Hammerhead scowled, scanning the rooftops for movement. He knew just about everyone in this war-band would be behind bars by the end of the night, but it'd all be worth it if they tagged that Venom freak. Inside the armored cars was the heavy artillery: machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades. The lead car even had some reverse-engineered alien weapons Silvermane had bought from some nut called 'The Tinkerer,' real scary shit. The big guns wouldn't come out, though, until Venom showed its face. Until then, they'd be content with breaking windows and starting some fires until they got his attention.

"We know you think these streets are yours, freak!" Hammerhead called out, lighting another Molotov. "But they ain't! These streets are ours! The whole goddamn city's ours! An' anyone who says otherwise? They're gonna get more a' this!"

As Hammerhead hurled the cocktail overhead, he heard the sound of police sirens approaching. Off in the distance, he heard the distinct pops of gunfire. Smoke began to curl up over nearby rooftops and into the night sky.

Another war-band had gone further uptown to deal the same damage to Hell's Kitchen. A third went into Harlem with the same mission: smoke out Venom, or make the city pay.

Silvio Manfredi wanted a war, and he was going to get it. Tonight, Silvermane would get his trophy, or the West Side would burn.

Marvel Knights

She's falling.

The world has slowed to a near stop. Rain drops hang suspended in the night sky, glittering orange from the flames below. Smoke curls upward in noxious black tendrils. The gout of blood spraying out from my stomach gleams bright as it catches hints of moonlight that peak through the rainclouds. A scream tears at my vocal chords, forced through gritted and red-stained teeth.

She's falling.

She doesn't scream as the cold black waters of the river below rush up to meet her. She just gasps, more out of surprise than fear. She never thought something like this could happen to her. Not while I was around. I'd sworn on her father's grave that I'd protect her. We loved each other with a fire that could ignite the stars. She was the happiest girl in the world, and I was her unbeatable hero. It was all so perfect. It couldn't go this wrong, this fast.

Now it's all gone to hell. She's falling, and I can't catch her. Over the sound of my own screaming I hear his laughter, that awful cackle that makes my skin crawl and my blood boil. He's won. He's gotten everything he could have wanted from this moment. This is his perfect revenge.

I feel a sudden weightlessness, my guts lurching upward as I begin to fall after her. This time I can do it. I can reach her. Save her. I can make it right....

The wind batters at my face as I will myself downwards, straightening my body out to increase my speed and catch up to her. Acting on instinct, I throw out a line to the bridge, to turn the sudden stop into a gentle swing. Just as the line begins to go taut, I reach her, pulling her close.

For an instant, I feel her body against mine once again, the pounding of her heart resonating throughout my every sense. I can hear her voice as she calls out my name, smell the lavender she uses in her hair. She looks at me and I see the sparkle in her glittering blue eyes, the trust and love she's had since we were children.....

.....then there's a shooting agony in my chest. I look down and see her hand, wrapped in shadows, has grown claws that she's sunk into my heart.



"Ohhh, Peter," she says, her sweet and loving tone turning lascivious and vile as the shadows wrap envelop her entirely and her voice turns into his. "My hero....."

I hear them laughing together as she cuts my web line, and he scoops her up in his arms. A long, slavering tongue erupts from her mouth and plunges into his, then she flings me downward with one hand, discarding me like garbage.

Even as I fall ever downward, the horrific wet smacking of their lips and tongues writhing against each other is right in my ears, a million smaller voices laughing at me from the darkness below. Mocking me for being such a fool. For trusting, for loving someone like that. For being so weak. For letting them destroy me so thoroughly.

In the blackness below, a mouth opens. A cavernous, slobbering maw lined with jagged fangs, gnashing hungrily as I fall toward it. There's nothing I can do.

I'm falling.

I'm falling.

I'm--

---

"Pete!" Harry says as he shakes me awake. Looking around with bleary eyes, I see I'm on the living room couch, the black suit still retaining the form of my clothes from last night. "Dude, you scared the shit out of us, man. After you ran out on the party, nobody could find you. I didn't even see you come in this morning."

"Yeah?" I ask, shaking my head to try and remember where I was, what I've been doing. I get the distinct impression that I don't really want to know. "I'm sorry, man. I just had to, I dunno.....get away. I didn't want everyone to freak out or anything, I just...."

I'm not able to complete my sentence, because I honestly don't know what I've done. I remember talking to Mary Jane about baseball or something, then Eddie shows up, and he shows me pictures of--

"....oh God," I groan, holding my head in my hands as I remember what I saw. "Eddie showed me something last night, did he tell anyone--"

"I know," Harry says, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his news feed. "The story's been all over the news today. It's all they're talking about."

He holds the phone out to me, the screen showing today's edition of the Daily Bugle. Not wanting to see it but knowing I have to, I take the phone and start reading.

SINS PAST

Startling New Evidence Suggest Illicit Affair Between Norman Osborn and Final Victim

Story by Frederick Foswell. Photos by Eddie Brock.

The tragedy that took place last year on the George Washington Bridge sent shockwaves throughout the City, making New Yorkers painfully aware of the dangers of living in a city full of masked vigilantes and super-criminals. However, new evidence has led some to conclude there was more to the deaths of Spider-Man, Norman Osborn, and Gwen Stacy than anyone had previously believed.

It is well-documented at this point that Stacy was an intern at OsCorp, and had been close friends with Osborn's son Harry. It is also now public record that OsCorp was embroiled in several illegal activities, including industrial espionage and sabotage, the development and testing on human subjects of technology restricted by the Sokovia Accords, and the smuggling of unregistered alien weaponry. That doesn't even include Osborn's personal criminal record, which, under the guise of the Green Goblin, includes multiple counts of arson, assault with deadly weapons, destruction of public and private property, and over three dozen counts of first-degree murder.

Until now, the prevailing thought among conspiracy theorists was that Osborn targeted Stacy because she had discovered one or more of OsCorp's illegal operations, and the destructive battle between the Goblin and Spider-Man was all a ruse to silence her and make it appear as collateral damage. However, a set of incriminating photos now suggest that Osborn did it to hide something else: a torrid affair between himself and his 19-year-old intern.

These photographs, allegedly taken on the 16th of July 2017, just two weeks before Stacy and Osborn's deaths, show the two of them meeting in Osborn's penthouse on 57th Street, apparently engaging in romantic conversation before--

"Shit!" I hiss through gritted teeth as I hurl Harry's phone against the wall. It shatters into a thousand pieces, glass and metal and plastic shrapnel showering the living room. It takes me a second before I realize what I'd done. "Oh! Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to--"

"I can afford another phone," Harry shrugs. "Honestly, heh, I'll just go by OsCorp and get another one for free, considering I own it now."

I laugh weakly, then sink back into the couch. Harry continues. "What really gets me is that there's other stuff that should've gotten the front page. I mean, that Venom guy? He trashed some dive bar about four blocks from here. Little hole-in-the-wall called the 'Big Sky Lounge.' Just busted in through the back door and started breaking bones like he was Steven Seagal. Three guys are in the ICU, beaten up so badly they might not make it. But this shit's what they lead with instead. Like they've got nothing better to do but kick us while we're down."

I wince as he tells me what Venom was doing while I was out. I know about the Big Sky Lounge-- it's a regular hangout for Tombstone's gang, run by one of the Kingpin's old Enforcers. It sounds like we were letting off steam by running down our checklist of acceptable targets and just smashing whoever was nearest.

Groaning in dismay, I bury my head in my hands again. "This can't be real. I mean, this is Gwen we're talking about. I knew her since fourth grade. There's no way she could--.......I mean, could she?"

Harry doesn't make eye contact with me. He just shrugs and looks away.

"One thing you learn about living with a psychopath," he says, "is that they're really good at hiding it. They don't have empathy, they don't feel things the way you and I do, but that makes people suspicious. So they pretend. They pretend like they care about other people, they pretend to be sympathetic when you're hurting and supportive when you need it. They pretend like they love you. And they get so good at it, they can fool everyone around them for years."

"Yeah, but....I can't buy that. I can't see her doing something like this. It's just..."

"I know, man," he says, giving me a pat on the shoulder. "It sucks. It really does. I mean, what's it say about the world we're living in if you can't even trust someone that close to you? Just makes it all feel like it's not worth it."

"....yeah....."

Harry claps his hands together like he's had an idea.

"Well, I think I know what we need," he says in a darkly chipper tone. "Go wash up and put on some comfortable clothes. We're gonna get drunk as hell, and then we're gonna break stuff."

I shake my head. "That's a really stupid idea, Harry."

He nods. "Yeah. It is. And you don't have a better one, do ya?"

I try for a moment to come up with an answer, before throwing up my hands.

"All right, drinks and breaking stuff it is," I concede.

It's a bad idea, and I know it.

But all things considered, a little property damage is far from the worst thing I've done in the last twenty-four hours.

Maybe it's better that I just break some things instead of breaking more people.

....then again, if this City's so damn intent on hurting me, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to start hurting it back a little....

Marvel Knights

Manfredi Ristorante
Mulberry Street, Little Italy

"Little Italy," Silvio Manfredi muttered bitterly as he pressed the side of his fork down into his slice of cassata. "Used to be a time when that name meant something. Tradition mattered here. Family mattered here. The Morellos, the Genoveses, the Gambinos, the Manfredis....these were names that had power. That commanded respect. This place we made our home, and nobody, not the police, not the Mayor, not the Irish or the Pollacks or anyone else, could come into our home and push us around."

He looked around the dimly-lit bistro, as if the speakers playing one of a thousand renditions of 'Santa Lugia' were a fly buzzing around his ears.

"Now look at this place," he said, waving his fork in a dismissive gesture. "A goddamn tourist attraction. Barely anyone left from the Old Country. The whole place has been overrun by gooks and spics and blue-haired fairies. All that tradition, all that history, all it means to them is pasta and opera singers. New York's forgotten what the name Manfredi means."

"Not all of us forgot, Boss," said Joseph Lorenzini, better known to the world as 'Hammerhead.' "We're loyal to the family, every step of the way."

Silvio glared at him. "Then why have you let this place degenerate like this? Why did the Maggia kneel and grovel to Wilson Fisk while I was away, and let a bunch of perverts in long underwear take our soldiers off the streets? Why is an animal like Tombstone moving in on our territory? And why, when all I asked for you to do was recover a storehouse we'd lost to the Goblin, do you come here and tell me half a dozen of our guys are in the goddamn emergency room?!"

"It wasn't our fault, Boss!" Hammerhead pleaded. "It was--"

"The Spider, I know," Manfredi cut him off. "Every other night, it's the same goddamn story. The Spider jumped you. He snapped Dom DeNucci's leg in half. He broke Irerra's back in three places. He turned Minelli's face into goddamn hamburger. An' even after, what, five years? You still haven't been able to put him down."

"....it ain't the same Spider," Hammerhead muttered, avoiding Manfredi's glare.

"Say that again?"

"It's true, what the news says about this Venom guy," he continued. "He ain't the same as the Spider I used ta fight. The old Spider, I could hurt him, knock him around. This guy? He does things the old Spider couldn't."

Lorenzini was famous for having nerves of steel, not backing down against even the most terrifying men in the city. Now, though, he was shaking.

"I saw him pick up one of our semis like it was nothin'," he said. "He could....I dunno.....make shadows that reached out an' grabbed you. I got a good angle on him after he took down Gargano, put a round right between his eyes. He didn't even flinch. Just rushed me, threw me halfway across the block. Only reason I ain't dead is 'cause of my, uh, enhancements. Then he just....just disappeared. Like a goddamn ghost."

Silvio sneered. "You tellin' me Chelsea is haunted now?"

"No, Boss, I don't know what the hell it was...." he said, throwing up his hands. "I just know I've gone up against the Spider a dozen times. And Venom? He might look like the Spider, but it ain't him."

Manfredi stared down at his cassata, the sponge cake starting to soak up the maraschino liqueur. The amateurish rendition of 'Santa Lugia' had ended, fading into Rosemary Clooney's 'Mambo Italiano.' The Maggia was once the most feared criminal syndicate in the world, spanning continents and centuries. The world had changed, and men like Wilson Fisk and Lonnie Lincoln had tried to change the nature of the business with it. Silvio felt....obsolete. A relic. A tchotchke for tourists to snap photographs with as part of the 'New York experience.' Like this chintzy bistro and its corny old music.

"This....Venom," he said, a poison of his own in his voice. "He's been spotted one the West Side just about every time he's shown up. Chelsea, the West Village, ESU. That's his turf. His home."

"....yeah, Boss," Hammerhead nodded.

"I want you get everyone we've got," Manfredi growled. "Every hitter, every soldier, every goddamn bookie and numbers-runner. If they can hold a gun, put one in their hands. Venom took from us? We're gonna take from him."

Silvio Manfredi, the once-dreaded 'Silvermane,' stabbed his fork into his dessert and pushed the dish away.

"Tomorrow night? We burn the West Side to the fucking ground."

---

Marquee New York
10th Avenue, Chelsea

The whole room pounded with thrumming bass of some electronic dance song whose name she didn't know. Honestly, after a while it all sounded the same anyway, but it was fun. Downstairs on the dance floor, a few hundred of Manhattan's beautiful people sweated and ground against each other to the beat, bodies practically melting into each other from the compact space and the concentrated heat.

Looking down on them from one of the upper balconies, Mary Jane Watson sipped from her old-fashioned, grinning as the platinum-haired girl tried not to spill her martini while pointing out a face in the crowd.

"So, your friend Harry," Felicia Hardy said with a mischievous look, "this whole OsCorp thing, it makes him, like.....a billionaire now, right?"

"He's already seeing someone," MJ said, knowing full well where this was going.

Felicia shrugged. "Since when has that stopped me? You know I like a challenge."

"Come on now," Mary Jane chided her. "Harry's my friend. So's Liz. She's nice. Don't split them up."

"Sooo, what you're saying," Felicia said, her grin turning absolutely wicked, "is that I should try to get two-for-one?"

Mary Jane laughed, shaking her head. "I'm saying you ought to behave yourself, for once in your life."

The platinum-haired girl gasped, taken aback. "Why, Mary Jane Watson, how could you say such things about me? You wound me to the quick!"

The two shared a laugh, before taking a gulp of their respective drinks. Felicia Hardy was an old childhood friend of MJ, separated over time by money and class. The Hardys were a wealthy family, while the Watsons....weren't so much. MJ's mother was an assistant to Felicia's father, and the two girls became fast friends back then. They eventually grew apart thanks to Mary Jane having to live with her aunt and Felicia getting caught up in the life of a Manhattan socialite, but even after several years, they clicked together like they'd never lost a step.

Somewhere in there was the plot to a halfway-decent play, MJ thought to herself, no doubt full of lesbian subtext and bold subversions of gender norms or something. Really, she was just happy to have someone she could call her best friend again....especially after losing her previous one a year ago.

Felicia nudged Mary Jane with her elbow, gesturing to a pale, skinny boy in a black suit, hovering awkwardly at the far end of the balcony.

"Jack Skellington over there has been side-eyeing you all night," she said. "Want me to go mess with him so he'll go away?"

"Hm?" MJ glanced around, then her eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh! No, that's Pete. I actually wanted to talk to him tonight."

"Ohhh, so that's the infamous Peter Parker," Felicia nodded. "Your old boyfriend from high school I've heard so much about?"

"We went out on one date; he was never my 'boyfriend,'" MJ corrected her. "And you've met him before. A couple of times."

Felicia shrugged. "Must not have been that interesting. Well, you go set off some sparks with your old flame. I'm going to hit the dance floor and see what kind of trouble I can cause."

MJ rolled her eyes as Felicia strutted towards the staircase, exaggerating the swing of her hips to catch more attention. Downing the rest of her drink, Mary Jane put her glass down on the nearest table, and started nudging and dodging her way through the crowd towards the skinny boy who was trying hard to pretend not to notice her.

"Hey there, Tiger," Mary Jane said, pulling on Pete's sleeve. For a split-second, something about the fabric felt...off, like she'd grabbed a handful of pudding, but she dismissed it as the last couple of drinks finally kicking in. "My friend tells me you've been creeping on me all night, you creeper."

"Oh, um, hey, MJ," Peter Parker stammered, trying to collect himself. "I didn't-- I mean, I was hoping I could--....okay, lemme start over--"

"God, you're easy to mess with," MJ laughed. "Seriously, it's good to see you. We haven't gotten to hang out in ages."

"I, yeah, I haven't been getting out much," Pete said, nervously looking away. "I mean, you know I was never much of a party guy, and then, just.....look, I don't wanna be a downer, I should probably just--"

"It's okay, Pete," she reassured him, putting her hand on his shoulder. "I miss her too."

Peter was the first person Mary Jane had met after moving across town to live with her aunt, who in turn was friends with Pete's aunt and had conspired to set them up on a blind date. He'd always been nervous, geeky, and constantly down on himself, but he was also one of the kindest--and most interesting--people she'd ever met. He was never short on corny jokes or witty observations, and practically broke his back helping his aunt get by without his uncle around. And it was through him that she'd met Gwen Stacy, who would eventually become one of her best friends--not to mention the best drummer that the lead singer of a shitty garage punk-rock band could have asked for. Mary Jane couldn't have been happier when after months of encouragement, Gwen and Pete finally wound up together.

It killed her to see Pete like this, though. He'd always had a sadness underneath his jokes and snark, from losing his uncle and from being an outcast at school. After Gwen died, though, he was like a ghost of himself, not talking to anyone, barely even leaving his room. She'd been worried for a long time that he was going to do something terrible, either to himself or to someone else....

She'd never said it out loud, but Mary Jane knew that Peter had secrets that he'd kept to himself--and not just a surprisingly nice body that he usually hid under dumpy clothes. The summer after graduation, they had all spent the day at Coney Island when a crazed super-villain calling himself 'Doctor Octopus' started rampaging through the park. And just when Pete had suspiciously gone missing, Spider-Man showed up to save the day. Gwen more or less confirmed it herself not long after, accidentally letting a few things slip while talking about things she'd discovered while interning at OsCorp. MJ knew why Pete had been destroying himself for the past year-- and why Spider-Man was suddenly nowhere to be found-- but she never quite knew how to approach the subject.

"C'mon," she said, taking Pete's hand. "It's quieter up on the rooftop, and the bartender up there mixes better drinks. Let's catch up."

"Yeah, I'd, erm, I'd like that," said Pete, smiling nervously as she led him towards the stairs.

---

The Daily Bugle
The Flatiron Building, corner of 5th Ave, Broadway, and East 22nd St

"All due respect, sir, I think this is bullshit."

"That doesn't sound very respectful," J. Jonah Jameson said, not even looking up from his paper as Eddie Brock paced back and forth in front of his desk. "We've already had this conversation, Brock."

"I know, sir, I just....I can't live with myself if I don't fight this," Eddie said. "These photos, we don't know their source, we can't trust them. I mean, the 'Sin-Eater?' We don't know anything about him! All he's said is he 'exposes the sins of the City' like he's some kinda hero, but he could just be some prankster for all we know!"

"That didn't stop you from using his leads on the Jack-O-Lantern story," Jameson remarked, turning the page. "If you're worried about it sinking your reputation, that ship's already sailed."

"It's not about that!" Eddie protested. "It's about....it's about her. And about Pete. They were my friends. If he sees this....it'll kill him, sir."

"Parker....hrmph," Jameson snorted. "You wouldn't even have this job if he hadn't quit. Always liked his spirit. He knew that the story came first, that you didn't let your feelings get in the way of the truth. You'd know that too if you were half the newsman he was."

Eddie's fists clenched at that remark. This got the Bugle's editor to glance up from his paper and look Brock in the eye.

"We're running the story in the morning," he said, putting up a hand to stop any outbursts. "But, since you're his friend.....I'll let you tell him first. Break it to him easy; kid's been through enough as it is."

"....thanks..." Brock muttered.

"I'm sorry, thank you what?"

"...thank you, sir."

"That's better. Now get going; I've got a paper to run."

---

"I've gotta admit, I'm....a little nervous," Harry Osborn said as the doors to the private VIP room back in the upper tiers of the night club. "I've never really done something like this before. I'm...kinda worried we'll get caught. Liz thinks I'm in the bathroom, so--"

"Don't worry," the slender, well-built young man lounging on the couch in front of him said. "I've had a couple of high-profile clients before. Trust me: I know how to keep a secret."

".....cool," Harry said, letting out a sigh of relief. "I don't know what would happen if this got out, but--"

"It's okay," the other man said, standing and unbuttoning his shirt as he approached. "There's nobody watching. Everyone's having a good time down there. Up here, it's just you....and me...."

Feeling the man's hand slide up his chest, Harry took a step back.

"It's just....I don't know, it feels kind of....wrong, having to pay for it," he said, starting to blush.

"Hey, you're paying for everyone else to have a good time tonight. Why shouldn't you pay to treat yourself a little, too?"

"Yeah....you're right," he nodded. "Umm, can you do something for me? It's a little weird, but..."

The young man tittered. "I can do weird, believe me."

"All right, then," Harry said, opening up his jacket and fumbling for something inside. "Then, ummm.....can you wear this for me?"

Pulling something red from his jacket pocket, Harry handed it over to the shirtless young man, who raised an eyebrow, then grinned.

"Whatever works for you," he said, pulling the Spider-Man mask on over his face. "Now, what do you--"

The young man's world exploded into stars and patches of color, with barely any time to register the pain of Harry's fist cracking across his jaw before everything went black.

---

The cold night air is a welcome change to the stuffy, oppressive heat from inside the night club. The music is less obnoxious, the partygoers a few scattered handfuls of friends and couples having conversations of their own instead of aggressively dry-humping each other vaguely in time with the beat. And the present company certainly doesn't hurt.

MJ and I have been talking for the better part of an hour, catching up on what we've been doing lately. Mary Jane's gone into business management because it's more sensible, but chances are she's going to change her major again. She auditioned with the drama department and got cast as Lady Macbeth, and rehearsals are going well she guesses. Her aunt just had to have the ceiling of her bathroom fixed after some old water damage caused a hole to bust through, to which I said I could have come fix that and saved her some money, but she didn't want to impose.....

It's been nice. I haven't really been able to just hang out and talk with anyone in a good long while. Harry's always either with Liz or in meetings at OsCorp. All the other people in my classes look at me like they're waiting for me to jump in front of a train or something. Even Aunt May treats talking to me like defusing a bomb, afraid she might say the wrong thing and set me off. So to be able to just make some small talk about nothing in particular with someone I like, it's been...well, I needed this.

"Do you watch baseball?" Mary Jane asks, changing the topic with a surprising sense of urgency.

I shrug. "It was really never my thing, but Uncle Ben was a big Mets fan, so I watched it with him every once in a while. Why, do you?"

She shrugs back. "I was a real tomboy back when I was little."

I raise an eyebrow, giving her a skeptical look.

"Shut up, I was," She says with a laugh. "Anyway, my dad took me to a Mets game when I was about eight. It's one of the only good memories I have of him. At that game, the Mets have this pitcher named Koo Dae Sun. He's a relief pitcher from South Korea. And, okay, you know how pitchers normally don't hit?"

I nod, assuming that's true.

"Well, yeah, they normally have a pinch hitter go up to bat for them. Anyway, this pitcher, Dae Sun, he's never actually been up to bat in his entire career. He'd been playing in South Korea and Japan for years, but he's never been up to bat. But for whatever reason, the coach decides to send Dae Sun up to the plate instead of sending in the pinch hitter. It's his first at-bat ever, and he's going up against Randy Johnson."

The reference goes sailing right over my head, so MJ elaborates for my benefit.

"He's got the second-highest strikeout record in the history of the sport. Five Cy Young Awards. He's an absolute monster on the mound. And Koo Dae Sun is pretty much just being led to the slaughter. The coach tells him to just stand there, let Johnson strike him out. There's no outs and no one on, so it doesn't matter much. He just needs to stand there and take it."

Mary Jane looks me dead in the eye, as if what she's saying is the most important thing in the world.

"At the 1-1 pitch, Koo decides, I guess just for a laugh, that he's going to swing. He hits it all the way back to the fence. If the wind had been on his side, it would've been a home run. But he gets a good solid double. The next guy bunts to put Koo on third, but Koo decides he's going to just keep running. He rounds third, slides into home, and scores. At his first at-bat, against Randy Johnson."

"That's....that's a pretty cool story," I say, not really getting the point.

"Well, that's not the end of it," she says. "The thing is, he's wearing a windbreaker jacket, and in his jacket pocket there's an extra ball that he'd forgotten about. When Koo slides into home, he lands on that ball and injures himself. The injury's bad enough that he has to call it a career. Koo Dae Sun never plays another game of baseball in his life."

I look at her quizzically. "So....he shouldn't have done it, right?"

"The point is this," she says, again looking me in the eye. "When Koo Dae Sun thinks about his career, do you think he thinks about the time he made a stupid mistake and got hurt? Or do you think he thinks about the time he went up to plate, swung at a ball he could have let pass him by, and scored on one of the greatest pitchers to ever play the game?"

Those piercing green eyes of hers stare right into mine, like she's searching for an answer in my very soul.

"Mary Jane......what's this really--"

"Pete!" a familiar voice calls out, breaking our stare. "Pete, hey, I've, um....I've been looking for you. We need to talk."

"Eddie?" I look and see a disheveled and sweat-soaked Eddie Brock making his way towards us. "Yeah, what's up?"

"It's....well, I--" Eddie struggles with the words before looking to Mary Jane. "MJ, do you mind if--"

"Not at all," she says coldly before walking off towards the bar. They dated briefly our senior year. It...ended badly.

"Pete, I know we haven't exactly been close for a while," Eddie says, "but something's come up. You're not gonna want to see this, but, well, you deserve to know first."

I look at him, puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

"At the Bugle, we've got this.....this contact, right?" he says. "He sends us leads on insider information. Scandals, dirty secrets, that sort of thing. Most of it's tabloid junk, but sometimes it's something big. And, well...."

"Eddie, I'm done with the Bugle, I'm not gonna--"

"Pete, just....look, I tried to stop this," he pleads. "I begged Jonah not to run it. But you know how he gets when he sees a big story. He's gonna run these in tomorrow's edition. I just thought....I thought you should know what's coming. Just.....look at these."

He hands me his phone, and on the screen is a set of photos.

It takes me a second for my brain to process what I'm seeing.

"This is.....no...." I stammer. "This can't--......I don't--.....what's--"

I drop the phone out of my hands, fighting back the urge to vomit. I push past Eddie, knocking him to the concrete as I run for the door, everything and everyone ceasing to be real. This can't be real. I'm having another nightmare, another horrible delusion. I have to get away from this, to wake up, to do anything to burn out of my mind what I just saw.

Those pictures.....they're pictures of Gwen.

Of her....with Norman Osborn.

As I shove my way out of the club, I stumble into a nearby alley....and I let it all go black.

Marvel Knights

Looks good to me. Moon Knight is APPROVED.

Marvel Knights

Dig it. Elektra is APPROVED.

Marvel Knights

She's falling.

The world has slowed to a near stop. Rain drops hang suspended in the night sky, glittering orange from the flames below. Smoke curls upward in noxious black tendrils. The gout of blood spraying out from my stomach gleams bright as it catches hints of moonlight that peak through the rainclouds. A scream tears at my vocal chords, forced through gritted and red-stained teeth.

She's falling.

She doesn't scream as the cold black waters of the river below rush up to meet her. She just gasps, more out of surprise than fear. She never thought something like this could happen to her. Not while I was around. I'd sworn on her father's grave that I'd protect her. We loved each other with a fire that could ignite the stars. She was the happiest girl in the world, and I was her unbeatable hero. It was all so perfect. It couldn't go this wrong, this fast.

Now it's all gone to hell. She's falling, and I can't catch her. Over the sound of my own screaming I hear his laughter, that awful cackle that makes my skin crawl and my blood boil. He's won. He's gotten everything he could have wanted from this moment. This is his perfect revenge: impaling me on the front of his glider, forcing me to watch helplessly as the woman I love dies before killing me himself.

I can't get free. I can't reach her. God, please, don't do this. Don't let this happen.

Without thinking, I throw out a line after her. I can still catch her, slow her down.

There's a sharp pull on the line, and an audible SNAP.

Then everything goes red.

My senses reel, the shooting agony radiating from the spike through my stomach crashes over me like waves in a storm. The horrible, mocking laughter screeches in my ears, like drills boring into my brain. If there's an opposite of numbness, it overwhelms me, such sheer crushing force of pain and horror and rage and hate that I can't register any of it. I feel and see and hear and smell and taste every awful detail of what I do in the next few seconds, but none of it means anything to me.

By the time the wave has washed over me in full, I'm free from the spike, blood still gushing from the ghastly wound. It doesn't mean anything. I've pinned him to the ground and ripped away his mask. I know his face. I've known it for years, the face of a man I trusted and respected. I don't care. His eyes are wide with fear as my hands crush down around his throat.

"Pe---*hgk!*---Peter....." he gasps as he claws vainly at my fingers. "I couldn't--.......I--*ngh!*....I'm so-.....sorry......fo-...*kkh!*.....-give me...."

I blink, and he's gone.

I feel hands squeezing around my own throat, the thumbs pressing against my Adam's apple, ready to crush the trachea.

Pinning me down, as I'd pinned him, she looks down at me, her head hanging limply at a horrific angle from a broken neck. One of her eyes looks at me with that same sparkling vibrant blue, the same love and trust she'd had for me since we were children. The other is dull, vacant. Dead.

Gasping for air and for mercy I know I won't receive, I beg in his words.

"Forgive me....."

She leans down to look me in the eye, and she says to me the same thing I said to him.

"No."

Her fingers close like a steel trap, and my throat collapses......

........and I wake in a cold sweat.

"Damn it," I mutter as I sit up in by bed, a cold draft coming in through the open window.

It takes me a few moments to collect myself, sitting at the edge of my bed and running my hands through my greasy, sweat-soaked hair, the only light in my filthy, cramped bedroom coming from the street lights outside. It's been over a year since that night on the George Washington Bridge. Since I made a stupid, thoughtless mistake and killed Gwen Stacy, the girl I'd loved since elementary school. Since I strangled Norman Osborn, my best friend's father, to death with my bare hands. Since I let Spider-Man die of a broken reputation. Every night since then, I've had the same nightmares. The same guilt, the same shame. I wake up, and feel the same emptiness.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something black slither across the floor, ducking away into the shadows. I shudder, and look out of the open window, wondering exactly what I've been up to.

I don't know what this......thing is, exactly. I don't know where it's from. I don't know how long it's been on me. All I know is that about three weeks ago, I woke up hanging upside-down in a warehouse in Red Hook, covered in black goo and surrounded by people who'd been beaten half to death.

This goo, it's some kind of unknown organism. Probably alien-- my guess is that it came to Earth during the invasion ten years ago, possibly as a stowaway or a barnacle on one of the Chi'tauri ships. Every time I think of knocking on the windows of the Baxter Building or trying to take a sample to the labs at ESU, I suddenly find myself finding a hundred different reasons not to. It's somehow bonded to me, and it's responded to my powers, amplifying them. I'm stronger, faster, tougher than Spider-Man ever was, capable of doing things I never could before. The tradeoff is that it likes to joyride, taking my body out for a spin when I'm not using it. Sometimes I'm conscious and can control what I'm doing. Sometimes I'm just along for the ride.

Every time we go out, I see reports the next day about drug dealers and gang bangers who'd been smashed into bloody pulps. Snapped limbs, broken spines, scrambled brains-- no deaths, but we're a hell of a lot rougher than I ever was on my own. I should feel some kind of remorse over this. Really, though, I'm just glad the people getting hurt are the ones who deserve it.

The first couple of times we went out, the news ran an article claiming Spider-Man was 'back in black.' I made sure the next people we brutalized set the record straight.

Spider-Man is dead. Venom, on the other hand, is just getting started.

There's a loud thump outside my door, voices murmuring, and I recognize the sound of music playing. Still half-awake, I struggle to my feet and stumble to the door.

I'm greeted with a slurred, sloppy "Heyyyyyyyyyy, iss Parker!" when I open the bedroom door and look blearily around the living room. Harry's hosting about a dozen or so people, clumped either around the couch or around the drinks in our kitchenette. Most of them I either only kind-of know or have never met, but I recognize a couple of faces.

A couple of high school friends, like Randall Thompson and Glory Grant. They both give me a polite nod when they see me, before going back to their conversations.

Felicia Hardy, a high-society heiress and friend-of-a-friend who occasionally likes to slum it with us 'common' people. She's leaned against a wall, idly sipping at her drink while sizing everyone up, like an apex predator on the prowl.

And the big drunken goof currently trying to give be a bro-hug, Flash Thompson, the former bane of my existence.

"Mannn, it's been, like, ages, Pete!" Flash says, like he's some old friend catching up on the good old days and not my perennial tormentor. "How've you been? Lemme getchyou a beer, huh?"

"Flash, it's--" I squirm for a second before easily escaping his grasp. "I'm good. I, err, I don't drink."

Flash's face sours, and he looks at me like I've got lobsters crawling out of my ears.

"Come on, Parker, it's a party!!" he insists. "Harry told me you've been feeling down, so how 'bout we knock back a few to cheer you up?"

I raise an eyebrow, unable to help myself. "You realize alcohol is a chemical depressant, right?"

"Pete!"

From across the living room, Harry strides out from his bedroom, instantly taking command of the place when he enters. Behind him, Liz Allan emerges and gives everyone a "we totally weren't just having sex, and if we were it's not a big deal, stop staring" smile. As the partygoers part like the Red Sea, Harry walks over to me, arms out wide like we hadn't seen each other in years.

"Pete, you're here?" he asks as he gives me my second unsolicited hug in less than a minute. "I knocked on your door like five times, how the hell did you sleep through all this?"

I give a weak shrug. "I was just....out cold, man." Which technically is true-- whatever the black suit was doing all evening, I wasn't conscious for it. "So, erm, what's the occasion?"

Harry beams widely. "I finally got the Board of Directors to give in. Took me the last two months and probably took a good five years off my life, but they folded, gave into every one of my demands. You, Peter, are now looking at the new CEO of OsCorp."

I'm actually taken aback by this. Harry never really had any interest in inheriting the keys to the kingdom while his dad was alive. So to see him suddenly become a power-player like this is....well, I can't say it's the biggest change of character for the two people living in this apartment, but it's damn close.

"Wow, man, that's.....congratulations!" I stammer for a bit. "So, um, do I have to start calling you Mr. Osborn now, or--"

"You do and I'll throw you out the window," he says with a laugh. "C'mon, we're having a drink."

I start to shake my head. "I just got done telling Flash here I don't--"

"You don't drink, I know," Harry nods. "And I don't run multi-billion dollar corporations. But hey, first time for everything, right?"

I look back and forth between Harry and Flash, both of whom give me pleading looks in return.

"....fine, what the hell," I shrug. "Just....lemme put on some clothes first. If I'm gonna be partying with New York's newest corporate mogul, I should try and dress for the occasion."

"Good man," Harry pats me on the shoulder. "Go get dressed-- once we're done pre-gaming here, we're hitting the town. If you're not out of your room in five minutes, I'm sending in Flash after you."

I give him a half-hearted laugh, then duck back into my room, looking around for something to wear. Stripping off my plain white T-shirt and pajamas, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Jesus, I look like hell. My skin's paler than usual, which only highlights the collection of scars across my body. Claw marks from the Black Cat. Burns from Electro. A handful of cuts and gouges from Doctor Octopus. And plenty from the Green Goblin, in particular an angry knot around my solar plexus from being impaled on his glider the night that.....

I shake my head, closing my eyes, trying to shake those memories out of my head. Nobody needs to see me like this. This is Harry's night, the least I can do is not come crawling out of my hole looking like a wretch.

I feel the black suit as it crawls across the floor, grabbing onto my ankles and slithering its way up my body. I picture the form I want it to take, and it listens. When I open my eyes again, I'm wearing a black button-down shirt with slacks and a sport coat. That should do.

After running some product through my hair and managing a halfway-decent facsimile of Matt Smith's do, I step back out into the party.

"There we go, man, looking sharp!" Harry says, passing me a shot. "You good to party?"

Something catches my eye on the other side of the room. Rather, someone. She must have come in while I was changing, but she's chatting with Felicia, a finger toying with a lock of striking red hair.

Turning to see me, Mary Jane Watson looks at me with those piercing green eyes, and smiles.

I snatch the shot from Harry's hand without even looking.

"Like you said," I say, "first time for everything."