"You mean that wasn't the Batman back there?" One of Mr. Fear's henchmen said to the Scorpion Mob driver behind the wheel of the getaway car. "Then what are we running for? Let's go back there and splatter that Spider all over the wall! I've been meaning to get that punk ever since he tried to get the boss put away the last time *!"
*: Issue #1, "Fear Factory", co-starring Batman... Greg
"I wanna show em that Gotham city crooks ain't afraid-a arachnids!" another goon concurred.
"Let's go back there and finish 'im off!" said the driver, who didn't wait for the word to be given. There was an evil grin on all their faces.
In the shadows of the parking lot, a figure, attracted by the gunshots and hullabaloo in the warehouse, moved closer to investigate, unaware that he was being watched.
The goons reached the doorway and began blasting at Peter Parker. Spider-man no longer had the super-agility or speed that he once had, but he managed to duck behind some of the fallen crates and strange machinery that were everywhere on the warehouse's wide open bay. Shots ricocheted everywhere. One of the Scorpions leaped ahead of the gunmen and was gaining a height advantage on Peter. Once he was in place, he would be able to pick off Peter with ease. "Looks like I'm getting ready to be the Splatt-tacular Spider-man," Peter moaned. He heard a screech and looked up. There in the heights of the rafters, Peter saw a shape and his heart sunk to his feet. To make matters worse, it looked like this crew had aligned itself with the Man-Bat. And the Man-Bat had spotted him. "Oh shi--"
Bam!
"Screeeeeeeeeeeeeech!"
Peter was suddenly aware of the Man-Bat's weight falling right at him. Kirk Langstrom fell, alright, but he landed not on Peter, but on the Scorpion henchman who had drawn a bead on him. Peter heard and saw a garbage can lid falling. "That's what brought Man-Bat down?" he commented dryly. "How droll."
Spider-man became aware of a figure moving in the shadows. "That dryness just saved your life," the stranger commented. "Now, unless you have other plans, I suggest you follow me."
Peter felt some of that old Spidey confidence coming back. "I did have a dinner party I was getting ready to set the table for, but it looks like my guests have turned hostile."
The man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing an emerald and gold ceremonial robe, and his face was masked in yellow. He looked, all in all, like some yellow-and-green Zorro. The man's movements were lithe as a cat's as he led Peter along a side route parallel to the regrouping pistoleers. Spider-man had the feeling that even had he still had his enhanced speed, this man could keep up or surpass him.
Peter, however, was no match.
He came up panting to his rescuer. Puff, puff. "Who are you?" he asked. Puff, wheeze, pant.
"I am the bearer of the Iron Fist."
Peter extended a shaky red glove. "Pleased to meet you, Mister Fist. I'm your friendly neighborhood Spider-man. Excuse me while I have a heart attack."
"We don't have time for that."
"I see. How does 12:30 sound to you? Can you pencil in my thrombosis for an early morning wake up call?"
The man Spider-man had called Iron Fist ignored Peter and led him out through a side door. The gunmen had gotten a bead on them and shots began to sound close to them as they headed into the night air. In the distance, sirens were beginning to sound out. They were still too far away to matter.
"I think this is where we split up." Iron Fist stated calmly.
"Wait... but--” There wasn't any waiting, however. Iron Fist leaped up to a fire escape and made for the second floor entrance to the warehouse. Moments later, Peter heard a loud set of crashes and pistol shots. General startlement and calamity, then silence.
"Sheesh, he must have gotten the drop on them. There went my dinner party. All that cooking gone to waste."
Peter waited for the man in the ceremonial robe to come back out, but he never did.
Some reluctant minutes later, Spider-man was on his way to retrieve his civilian garments (the sirens seemed to have not been heading their way after all. This being Gotham City, Spidey wasn't surprised.), and listening to the black waves lapping against the aged wood of the Gotham docks, when a piece of the night sky seemed to reach out and grab him.
Not having Spider-sense is really going to take some getting used to, Peter thought as he was spun around. This time, though, Peter didn't wait to see who it was that was accosting him. He wasn't completely without some knowledge of hand-to-hand combat gained from his years as a crimefighter and superhero. Peter shifted position and pushed the stranger away from him. "I've had quite enough of people putting their hands on me without my permission," he said menacingly. "The least you could do is offer me a drink first," he added. Then: "What's up long-ears? Bats in your belfry?"
Batman didn't think the joke was funny. "What were you doing with the Joker?" he asked.
"I needed a laugh," Spider-man responded evenly.
"I just want you to know that I'll be watching you."
"Wonderful. I'm already watching you. Did I tell you that I admire your fashion sense? Well, I do. Maybe I'll adapt my costume to look like yours -- You know, black costume, with maybe a whhite spider on it to make it stand out. Oh, wait--" Peter paused in mid-ramble, to look right in Batman's eyes. "--I did that already. It was boring. And you know what, Bats? You're boring me too." He turned his back on Batman. "Now go away. Go haunt a graveyard, or something," Peter said as he walked away.
Although Peter's voice was calm, inside he was furious. He took a circuitous route away from his civilian clothes, and then started to head back towards them when a voice spoke to him from out of one of the shadows. "That was pretty impressive back there," said the voice. The body to which the voice belonged stepped out of the shadows. It was the man in gold and green. "He could've taken you apart."
"He impresses you that much?" Peter said, not caring either way. He didn't really care if either of these jokers (Peter was starting to hate that word) were still around; he would change in front of them, if he had to. He just wanted to ditch the costume, get into civilian clothes and go back to the hotel and soak for a few days. In the past twenty-four hours he had been tricked, beaten up, and shot at. In other words, it hadn't been a day to write home about.
Iron Fist, answering Peter's question about Batman said: "It's not that he impresses me. Gotham's guardian is not bad, for an amateur; someone who dabbles in the martial arts." The way Iron fist said that last part, it made Spider-man laugh. He might as well have said for someone who dabbles in molesting sheep. He looked at his companion and said: "You're alright, Fist, you know that?"
"Thank you."
"No, thank you. I didn't thank you for helping me get out of that jam, back there. So, what brought you out her at this time of the night?"
"I was following the trail of someone who tried to kill me."
"That seems to be going around, these days. It might be catching. Did you get them?"
"No," Iron Fist remarked. "But I will."
"Where are you off to next?"
"New York,"
Peter almost said Oh yeah? Me too but something about the way the man in yellow and green said it made him hesitate.
"Yes, New York. That is where the man who tried to kill me resides. I am going to New York to kill Peter Parker."
The alien darkness which engulfed Harleen Quinzel *, and which had until a few minutes ago been in the warehouse where Spider-man nearly lost his life, escaped through a drainage grill and made its way into a sewer. Something strange was beginning to happen. Its black oily skin bubbled and heaved, as if in turbulence. The creature gave every indication of being sick…
*: Last issue... Greg
Rusty Drabik remembered the good life. That had been... what, years ago? Decades ago? He couldn't remember exactly, but he remembered the good life. Fine wine, a lush penthouse in the city. That was before he got caught for embezzlement. Before he went to jail. Sure, he served his time, but then what? He couldn't get a job. No one would hire an ex-con. His friends left him, His wife sued for divorce…
Rusty didn't want to think about all that happened, after. He just liked to remember the good times. It was what kept him warm on cold nights like these when he had to sleep outdoors because he couldn't afford to flop anywhere. Those memories, and that bottle of Mad-Dog wine.
Rusty Drabik felt that those years in between had been a big dark pit that he had fallen into.
His luck was about to get worse.
The dark liquid heaved up and over him, and absorbed him, leaving not a trace of Rusty Drabik, except for a bottle of Mad Dog wine.
Alan Scott, communications executive, is busy writing at his desk, when his buzzer rings.
"Mr Scott, you have a visitor."
"Who is it?"
"Your ward, sir."
"Send him in."
(A moment later, a muscular blond young man in his twenties walked into Alan Scott's office. We see the door which has his name stenciled across it, underneath the legend are the words President, Sentinel Communications. The young man was somber-faced. He was dressed in casual clothes -- jeans and cowboy boots, a down vest -- but there was nothing casual about him.)
"Daniel," Alan Scott said, rising in greeting. "It's good to see you. Won't you sit down."
"Thank you for sparing some time to see me, sir. I know you must be busy. I won't be long."
"Daniel, you're wet."
"I'm sorry about that. I was just attacked while I was walking by the docks. I fell in the water while I was fighting one of my opponents."
"One of --? Are you okay, Daniel?"
"I am fine, Mr Scott. I am not easily defeated in combat." Saying this, the blond man's face held a trace of a smile.
I look at you Danny, and I believe that to be true, Alan Scott. "So if you're okay, Daniel, then how can I help you? I've managed to facilitate movement of funds from the Rand-Meachum trust to your account, as you requested. Was the sum not enough?"
"No. My needs are simple, and the funds you've provided are more than sufficient to tend to them. What I was wondering, was whether or not you could find out if there had been any inquiries had been made into the transfer, and if so, by whom. Might that be possible?"
"I'll see what I can do."
Daniel explained. "If I've been attacked, I don't think it was a random occurrence. I think I've been discovered. I want to know how, and if possible, by whom." He rose to leave.
"What will you do now?"
"I'm going to see if I can track down who sent my attackers to face me."
"Call me if you need anything," the elder man said.
"I'll be in touch."
A couple of seconds after Daniel Rand left, Alan Scott picked up his pencil and started to scribbling away on his legal pad furiously while looking at video playback for some show he's producing. No sooner was he completely engrossed in his work, than his buzzer cut in again.
"Mr Scott, Security seems to have a problem."
"Well, let them handle it," Alan Scott growled. "Isn't that what I'm paying them good money for?" Alan Scott rubbed a weary face with his ink-stained hands. "What's the problem, anyway?"
"Some barbarian-looking person has shown up in the lobby asking to speak with you."
Alan Scott put down his pencil. "Very well," Alan Scott said, resignedly, "Send him up."
"Send him up? Sir, we were thinking more along the lines that maybe you can send in a call to your friends in the Justice Society -- "
"No. Send him up, Ms. Swashbucket."
There are a number of parasitic aliens that exist throughout the universe. Some are attracted by emotions, others by certain energy frequencies. Others are attracted by fear. These symbiotes are a nuisance and dangerous, but they do not register as threats of any magnitude.
That situation was about to change.
Weapon Zero continued its inevitable passage southward towards destiny.
Jason Drew was worried about his friends. In the past 24 hours, two of his friends' houses had been firebombed, along with his place of employment. Jason was more than worried. He was downright scared. Being a telepath didn't help matters, it made them worse. Now he could see the disgust and fear he was beginning to engender in other people as they saw him walking, wide-eyed and frantic, through the streets of Pittsdown, New Jersey.
He tried calling his friends, but couldn't find any of his teammates in the New Men. Dash had been having nightmares, Dash and Pilot's houses had been torched, Charade -- well who knew what Charade was up to, and Kodiak tended to stay around Dash. So it made sense that if Dash had disappeared, then so had Kodiak *.
*: A brief retelling of New Men 21-23... Greg
And so a frightened Jason Drew decided to go back home: Pittsdown – midway between Atlantic City and Gotham, a slice of dried up and dying Americana known to its teenage residents as "the pitts". Now that Jason Drew had returned here, he saw it through eyes decades removed from when he was a child growing up in the pits. Even the playgrounds were filled with shadows.
Jason Drew turned up the collar of his coat as night approached and a chill wind blew in from the East. He wore oversized dark sunglasses and kept them on even as night fell and the town became lit by streetlights. It was to hide his special burden. Because even though Jason Drew was alone, he was not companionless. Unconsciously, Jason Drew touched the space between his brows, partly hidden by the glasses: a small glassine rock; a very special gem. It spoke to him now.
The town of Pittsdown was unlucky in three ways: one, it was midway between Atlantic City and Gotham, and thus it was smack-dab in the middle of nowhere; two, it was where a gifted telepath named Jason Drew grew up; and three, it was where a man nicknamed Rusty had once made his home. It was some memory of Rusty Drabik's that had brought the shapeless alien creature that had absorbed him to Pittsdown. The creature was a near-mindless organism; a parasite of the highest order, driven by its own needs to seek out the greatest source of fear, like a shark was driven to find the source of blood in water. The symbiote had been intended for another host, but had escaped in a melee in a Gotham City warehouse. There, it had absorbed the essence of Harleen Quinzel, research assistant to Gotham City's notorious Joker *. A chance encounter with a bum deep in his half-invented memories of a past, which grew rosier as they grew hazier, drove the dark creature south.
*: Last issue. The Joker, in fact, was the unlikely teammate of Spidey in a failed attempt to rescue Harleen, AKA Harley Quinn -- Madcap Greg
Perhaps it was more than just chance that drove it south, where it came face-to-face with one of the world's most powerful psychics, deep in the midst of a panic attack.
The school yard was empty except for shadows. There had been a series of sniper attacks on children and the snipers had not as yet been caught. As a consequence of this, most parents were keeping their children safe at home. Jason Drew, Reign of the New Men, sat on one of the swings. "When I was growing up," he said to the shadows. "This town looked huge. The trees looked like forests, the shadows were filled with all kinds of monsters." He started swinging, then stopped. "The older I got, the smaller this place became. The chintzier everything looked. And I stopped being afraid of the dark. I was glad when my father's job took him away from here. I'm not sure why I came back here. Maybe it was to see you." Jason Drew let his feet dangle in the sand for a moment, and then he stood up.
The creature, which he could feel was at the edge of the school yard, began to try and probe Reign's mental defenses. Jason didn't get the sense that it was a concerted attack; it was more in the nature of some animal trying to get the sense of its prey's vulnerabilities.
"Wait a minute… don't I know you -- ?" You're that middle-aged guy who used to live down the street, was what he started to say, but the instant that he let down his defenses when he recognized something of Rusty Drabik in the creature, he was lost.
Alan Scott was a busy man. As head of the Sentinel Enterprises news organization, he ran a successful media outlet, with dozens of television stations and radio affiliates nationwide. He had been interrupted enough times that morning to throw his whole schedule into chaos. Which was why his assistant waited a whole fifteen minutes after his last unexpected visitor left, before interrupting him again. "Mr Scott, you have another visitor."
Alan Scott rubbed his face with his hands. He was incredulous, but resigned. "Who is it this time? The Mayor? Thor?"
"Sir, it's Spider-man."
Alan Scott threw his pencil across the room, threw himself back in his chair and kicked his feet up on the desk. "Is there a superhero convention in town that I don't know about?" he muttered. "Or maybe the Avengers are holding another recruitment drive."
"Excuse me, sir?"
Never mind, Ms. Swashbucket. Send him up. Oh, and Ms Swashbucket, one more thing --"
"Yes, Mr Scott?"
"Could you contact our graphics department and have them put together a sign for me?"
"Certainly, Mr Scott. What should the sign say?"
"'Open house'."
The red-and-blue garbed Spider-man came in, much to Alan Scott's surprise, with Danny Rand. Spider-man made a big show of wanting to talk to Alan Scott alone because of some supposed rescue when he was young. Alan Scott had been around long enough to know it was a ploy.
Although semi-retired from public life, the former protector of Gotham City known as Sentinel had made it his stock to trade favors. Spider-man told Alan Scott that Danny Rand had told him that someone was making inquiries into his life, and that Alan Scott had traced the inquiries to a certain Peter Parker. Rand felt that the person who was trying to get information on him was the same person who had sent some robotic assassins to kill him *. Spider-man knew otherwise. He needed help in keeping Iron Fist at arm's length, while trying to track down the real mastermind.
*: Twisted versions of the Metal Men who Danny Rand, in his guise as Iron Fist, tackled last issue. For more details see the Heroes for Hire Zero issue, available now... Greg
Alan Scott was barely listening. Part of his habit as a media magnate was to keep a couple of TVs playing in the background. He knew what Spidey wanted of him. Seeing the devastation playing out on the screen, Alan Scott knew what he wanted Spider-man to do for him. He turned up the volume on one of the sets. "Breaking news… the town of Pittsdown, New Jersey has suffered a huge explosion, causing major devastation and loss of life… I repeat … Pittsdown, New Jersey has been blown up…"
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