Authors: Peter David
As one, the board members closed their folders, and Osborn sat back in his chair, arms folded, smiling. He remem
bered the legendary story of the host of a radio kid's show
who—at the conclusion of one day's broadcast—ostensibly
didn't know that he was still on the air when he muttered
into a live microphone, "There. That should hold the little
creeps for another day." That was exactly how Osborn felt at
that moment.
Balkan leaned forward, a smile etched on his face.
"That's wonderful news, Norman." He cleared his throat and
added, almost as an afterthought, "In fact, it's the reason
we're selling the company."
It took a moment for the words to fully register on Os
born. When they did, he was on his feet instantly.
"What?!"
He looked as if he didn't know whether to laugh in their
faces or scream in them.
"It took us all by surprise," Balkan said, having the nerve to sound as if he were commiserating. "But Quest Aerospace
is recapitalizing in the wake of the bombing."
Osborn's head snapped around to the nearest board mem
ber. "Fargas, what's going on here?"
Fargas didn't respond. Instead he simply glowered at Os
born, as if Osborn were some lower form of life. It was
Balkan who replied. "Quest is expanding, and they've made
a tender offer we can't ignore."
"Why wasn't I told about this?!"
thundered Osborn.
"The last thing they want is a power struggle with an en
trenched management," Balkan said, still trying to sound
reasonable.
That was when Fargas stepped in, and if they were consciously doing good cop/bad cop, they couldn't have done a
better job of it. "They want you out, Norman. The deal is off
if you come with it. The board expects your resignation in
thirty days."
"You ... can't do this to me," stammered Osborn. "I built
this company...."
He couldn't understand how this could be happening. It
was like some sort of surreal, demented joke, or a dream
from which he would be awakening at any moment. Why, he
and Fargas went back decades ... he'd been the first to be-
lieve in him. "Max, please ..." Osborn said, hating himself
for feeling weak and sniveling.
As if tolling a death knell, Fargas said, "The board is
unanimous. I'm sorry," he added, not sounding sorry at all.
"We're announcing the sale right after the World Unity Fes
tival."
Well, of course. Why have a cloud hanging over that?
Why risk reporters turning out in droves, asking about Os
born's ouster, instead of focusing on the relentlessly cheer
ful and upbeat promotional spirit that was the festival's
theme?
Norman Osborn felt as if a dark cloud was settling over
his eyes, over his mind. He glanced outside, and although
the sun was out, it no longer seemed bright. Instead it was
overcast and threatening.
"You're out, Norman," Balkan said, driving the stake home.
And when Norman Osborn turned and looked back at the board of directors, there was something else in his eyes, that
hadn't been there before. A quiet, deadly madness, that no
one saw, and even if they had seen it, they would not have
believed it.
"Am I," he said, and it was not a question. And in the flu
orescent glow of the overhead lights, his eyes had taken on
a distinctly green cast.
Peter hated crowds.
Not that he'd ever been wild about them, but the feeling
had become more pronounced in recent months. The only
thing he could figure was that it was because of his new
found freedom. Leaping among rooftops, hurtling among
the spires of New York, it was as- if he had the entire city to
himself. When people surrounded him, all he could think
about was leaping above them, clinging to a wall, webbing away with abandon, leaving gravity behind.
But he didn't have a lot of choice. His assignment was to
take pictures of people enjoying themselves at the World Unity Festival in the heart of Times Square, not crowds of
people pointing upward at the amazing webbed individual
swinging over their heads. So he took a deep breath, counted
to ten, and then snapped some pictures of the enormous mul
ticolored globe that loomed over Times Square, trying not to
get elbowed in the ribs in the process.
Behind him, on a stage, a singer was doing a soulful ren
dition of some pop tune. Getting a shot of that wouldn't be
a bad idea, so Peter started wending his way through the
crowd, putting his spider sense to good use by deftly moving
his feet so he didn't get stepped on. As he did so, he continued to take pictures of the crowd, although he lowered his
camera when he inadvertently focused on a young man read
ing a typically anti-Spider-Man headline in the
Bugle.
Well, there were certainly plenty of other things he could
shoot. There were booths set up with displays from various
countries, and colorfully costumed people of all different nationalities were moving among the crowd, serving sam
ples of their native cuisine. There were oversized balloons,
there were floats celebrating global togetherness. Children
were holding small balloon versions of the globe, or wearing
T-shirts with the symbol on it
. . .
and with the OsCorp logo
on the back. Yup, old Stormin' Norman never missed a trick.
Peter had no clue how many people were in attendance. It
had to be thousands, and amazingly, no one else seemed annoyed or claustrophobic. The atmosphere was one of sweet
ness and light. That made a certain degree of sense to Peter.
In the world itself there existed strife, war, poverty, genocide ... but in a representation of the world, one got to pre
tend that everything was great. Then again, he figured,
perhaps he was just getting cynical in his old age.
He spotted the reviewing stand, a converted balcony five
stories up, which had a huge banner that read
osborn in
dustries
WELCOMES YOU TO THE THIRD ANNUAL WORLD UNITY
festival.
Huge twin statues of Hercules—according to the
press packet that Peter had received—stood on either side of
the reviewing stand, appearing to support it. That seemed a
little odd to Peter, considering it was Atlas who—according
to legend—bore the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Then he remembered that Hercules had once been tricked
for a short time into shouldering the burden himself, and de
cided he could forgive the apparent misuse.
Peter got as close to the reviewing stand as he could, figuring that a shot of the people in the stand would be a good one to have. He scanned across the balloons, past the float
ing streamers, up the torso of the Hercules statue, and dis
covered an assortment of men in dark suits engaged in
intense conversation with one another. He looked for a
familiar face. Maybe having Norman Osborn's mug in the
Daily Bugle
might put a smile on his typically surly
demeanor. No
...
there was no Norman in sight, although
he did see Harry and
...
"Mary Jane," breathed Peter.
Mary Jane couldn't recall the last time she'd felt so ner
vous.
She wasn't the world's greatest seamstress, but she wasn't terrible at it, and she had put a ton of man-hours into sewing
the dress she was wearing. In terms of design it hadn't been that difficult: It was a simple Chinese cheongsam, made of
red silk with a floral print. The neck was high, the collar
closed, with short sleeves, a loose chest, a fitted waist, and slits up the sides to a modest height. All in all, it set off her shape rather nicely, she thought.
She desperately wanted Harry to like it. She looked for
some hint of approval as he carefully attached a unity pin to
her bosom. He was visibly nervous, his hands shaking. She had a feeling that it had nothing to do with proximity to her,
and his next words bore out her suspicions.
"Perfect," he said, once the unity pin was attached. "Except ... how come you didn't wear the black dress? I wanted to impress my father. He loves black."
Mary Jane was instantly crestfallen. She knew the black
dress he meant; it was slinky and sexy but not at all the thing
she wanted to be wearing when trying to make a good first impression. The cheongsam had seemed the perfect idea; it was attractive and shapely, but didn't make her come across
as
...
as low class. That's what she was the most concerned
about. Norman Osborn, Harry ... they were high society.
And she ... wasn't.
Rallying, she said, "Maybe he'll be impressed, no matter
what? I mean, you think I'm pretty."
Perhaps realizing he had said the absolute wrong thing,
Harry took her by the shoulders and smiled warmly. "Of
course I do. You're beautiful."
He leaned forward to kiss her ...
... and reflexively, for no reason she could readily un
derstand herself, she averted her lips at the last moment, so
that he kissed her on the cheek. Harry seemed slightly sur
prised, even a bit startled.
And then Harry looked even more startled. He seemed to
be staring at something in the crowd, but when Mary Jane endeavored to follow his sight line, he quickly put an arm
around her shoulder, turning her away, making forced con
versation which only served to underscore how awkward the moment had been. She was still so flustered over her gut re
action that she didn't even bother to think about what it was
in the crowd that had so thrown Harry for a loop.
Maybe it was his father, actually smiling,
M. J. thought
dourly.
That would be enough to confuse the hell out of anybody.
Peter watched through his viewfinder, feeling sick to his stomach as Harry leaned forward to kiss Mary Jane, who in
turn looked more ravishing than Peter had ever seen.
And then, to his astonishment, Mary Jane averted her
face so that Harry kissed her on the cheek rather than the
lips.
He couldn't believe it.
There was hope!
There was hope!
Jubilantly, Peter pumped the air, and something about the
gesture caught Harry Osborn's attention. He looked down just as Peter had his arm raised, and they locked eyes.
Don't tell Harry,
Mary Jane's warning sounded in his
head, and he hadn't, except Harry had obviously gone and
found out anyway. Because Harry saw Peter looking right up
at them, and he was probably thinking,
Crap, Peter knows!
Except Peter had already known, so it wasn't as bad as it
might have been, except maybe that made it worse.