While Dark as Silver likely has a point, Noa notes that several of the photos on his wall feature IBM (a competitor of Apple).
Pound the Table | An X-Men Self-Insert
- Thread starter October Daye
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Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
It's not that his super speed might counteract the medication, so much as it might cause it to wear off faster than it should - remember, you have to take medication on a regular schedule to keep things running smoothly. If your metabolism is regularly moving at a faster pace than usual, it can cause medication to wear off faster, and if your metabolism is running at the insane pace Pietro's does when he's accelerated, the medication may as well not have been there to begin with. It doesn't matter what they're trying to do, if they're already out of your system five minutes after you take them.
Now Wolverine's powers - those will counteract any medication he takes. Fortunately, they also usually mean he doesn't need any.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Lachland used to work at IBM, as a lead developer. He worked there for long enough, and on enough projects, that his name is known in tech circles.
Hence why essentially a solo-owned small business 1) has clients in the Fortune 500, and 2) can afford an office decently above street level on Rockefeller Plaza.
The better question is: why did he leave IBM?
In 1990? Piercing, almost oracular, foresight.
Sucal
The Devil’s Cut
- Location
- Bottom of the barrel
He wasn't born Fred Dukes now was he?
Ganurath
Literal Enthusiast
- Location
- A Valid Location
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- He/Him
I'm guessing it had something to do with IBM handing the Graphic User Interface to Apple on a silver platter because a woman said that doing so was a bad idea.
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- She/Her
No. Fred Dukes is a client 2-3 arcs from now.
…
I shouldn't have said that.
Wait, are we talking about IBM or BMI? These are two very different things!
Sucal
The Devil’s Cut
- Location
- Bottom of the barrel
Eyes narrow
I see what you did there.
Should I be reading more into the 'friend from Europe on the left side of the law' bit, or am I completely misinterpreting things?
this was completely a guess, but I assumed the left arm is the one that the Nazis tattooed the ID numbers onto for prison/death camp detainees.
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Correct. Inside left forearm is where you'll find them.
Seeing the numbers on somebody is a rather jarring experience. It's something I hope to never see the likes of again.
pbluekan
Somethin's Fucky ...
- Location
- Trumpistan
I've seen them three times. Two on family, once a few years ago at Yad Vashem. I don't think I'll ever see them again, and I hope I never do.
- Location
- Leeds
Osborn? You again!
- Location
- The deathworld-in-miniature that is Australia
- Pronouns
- They/Them
My family has a hereditary thing where our livers (I think it's our livers) are both larger and more efficient-per-volume than standard. Means we can drink almost anyone under the table. Unfortunately also means if we're sedated for surgery, the anaesthesiologist has to be aware otherwise we can wake up mid-surgery. Also means that for our ADHD meds we need to take more, more often, and any time we see a new doctor they just about have a heart attack at the amount of meds we're on.
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- She/Her
I am fortunate in that I've never seen them on family.
At the same time, I am unfortunate in that I've never seen them on family.
You are young enough that you will probably see them become a quirky fashion statement in your lifetime. Hell, If the MCU gives Magneto some epic shirtless action scene it could become a tasteless Halloween thing quite soon.
My mom told me how when she was a kid in the 70s in Canada she didn't really know a lot about the Holocaust, but she was used to the local butcher wearing short sleeves and leaving his number perfectly visible. I can't say I'd ever get used to that kind of image myself, especially since my only real exposure to numbers was from survivors giving talks about it and showing us.
Chapter Twenty-One
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- She/Her
Pound the Table
Chapter Twenty-One
Monday, June 25, 1990
While Erik tied up the three goons that had broken into my home, I called Cate and told her what had happened, then made another pair of calls.
Cate was probably out the door within thirty seconds of hanging up the phone with me, and managed to arrive at my front door forty-five minutes later, accompanied by a trio of FBI agents.
"Noa," Cate started as she circled the three thugs unconscious on my floor. "I love you, but there is no way on God's green earth you did this yourself."
"She didn't."
Cate flinched violently at the sudden voice, one of her arms pushing me behind while the other pulled her sidearm from her hip. I noticed that the other three FBI agents she brought with her had similar reactions, though one of them fumbled with his holster long enough that he scored a look from the other two.
For his part, Erik merely looked amused, even with four guns leveled in his direction.
"Noa?" Cate asked, not looking back.
"He's friendly," I said with a sigh, then glared at Erik. "Really? You had to be a drama queen now?"
Infuriatingly, all he did was smile.
"Erik Lehnsherr, Mossad," he said. "I am afraid this is all that even your superiors are cleared to know. These men," he waved his hand at the thugs on my floor, "were incapacitated by my hand."
"Care to explain what an Israeli spook is doing stateside?" Cate asked, voice tight with suspicion. I huffed, then pushed myself out from behind her to stand beside Erik.
"Cate, cool it," I told her. "Everyone, this is Erik. Family friend and probably would've been named my godfather if he wasn't off being a secret agent, I trust him implicitly, so please put the guns away in my home!"
My voice had risen to a shrill shriek by the end of that, and I didn't honestly care. The tensions were too high, there were guns being aimed in my home, it was after eleven o'clock at night, I was exhausted, I wanted to sleep so badly I was on the verge of tears, and it looked more and more like that was even more hours away.
"Stand down, people!" Cate called, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Jones, Miller, cuff the crooks and get them down to the van. Burns, take the spook's statement." Cate holstered her gun and walked up to me, then wrapped an arm around my shoulders and started guiding me towards the back, shooting a glare over her shoulder at Erik along the way. "And you are not staying here tonight. Do you have an overnight bag?"
"Closet on the left," I said right as she was about to drag me past it.
Cate stopped to open the closet door, pulled out my small wheeled suitcase, closed the closet door, and then finished dragging me back into my bedroom. She tossed the suitcase onto my bed, closed the door, and sat down on my bed with a sigh.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Noa, you really don't do anything by halves, do you?" Now that she wasn't putting up a strong front for the agents under her command, Cate looked exactly as tired as I did. Now that I thought about it, she had probably barely gotten in her own front door when I called, and I wouldn't be surprised if she'd had to pull all three of the agents currently in my living room out of bed for this.
"It's not like I planned for any of this," I snarked back, opening my closet and drawers, and pulling out what clothes I would need for a few days. When I realized I was being too rough with my clothes and unfolding them, I paused to take a deep breath. "I… sorry, Cate. I'm, it's just… first my office, now this?"
"No, it's okay," she said, standing up from the bed. "I get it. This is just – wait. Noa, what about your client?"
"I gave him a call after I hung up with you," I told her. "Said he was fine, wouldn't elaborate."
"Okay, I'll make sure to have someone check on him in the morning." Cate walked over to my bathroom door. "Here, let me help. You have a toiletries bag?"
"Under the sink!"
I heard Cate's footsteps on my bathroom floor, followed by the cabinet under my sink opening and closing, so I turned back to my clothing situation. A garment bag carrying my favorite skirt suit found its way onto the doorknob as a just-in-case; meanwhile, my suitcase rapidly filled with a few blouses, skirts, a dress, enough underthings for double what I thought I'd need, and my spare pairs of heels and flats. The makeup bag from my vanity and my glasses case went on top, and I probably only had just enough room for toiletries once Cate finished up in the bathroom.
"Hey Noa?" Cate's voice came from the bathroom.
"Yeah?" I asked.
"I can't find your razor!"
"Uh…" I blinked, walking up to the bathroom door. "I don't have one?"
Cate stopped and looked up from the drawer she was rummaging through, travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner in her hands.
"You… don't have a razor," she said slowly, voice dripping with disbelief.
"... no?"
Cate stood up straight and stared at me, mouth slightly ajar.
"You… don't shave?"
"Cate." I hooked a finger on one of my horns. "I don't have body hair. I have scales."
"Wait." Cate went back under my sink, and pulled out a loofah. "Is this for…?"
"T-that's, uh," I stuttered, feeling myself start to blush as I looked away to not meet her eyes. "That's for when, uh. When my scales shed. Every few months."
"... the liver and onion cravings?" she asked.
"..." I refused to answer, but I was pretty sure my blush told her everything she needed to know.
Cate looked at the loofah in her hand, and I saw her trying to keep her shoulders from shaking.
"I-it's not funny," I protested. Cate just shook her head and handed me my toiletries bag before leaving the bathroom. I checked to make sure it had everything before I zipped it up and followed her. "It's not! Cate!"
"Come on, little lizard," Cate said as she took my zipped-up toiletries bag from my hand, tossed it in my suitcase before she zipped that up too. "And no shedding in the car!"
"Cate, I swear to God…"
Tuesday, June 26, 1990
Sleeping over at Cate's was usually a fun time, because her cats Chester (an orange tabby) and Lester (a Siamese) particularly liked me, so I got to snooze while surrounded by soft, purring blobs of fur and love.
It wasn't much of one, though, because instead of being there because we had a bit too much fun the night before, I was crashing at her place for my own protection. Which, well, put a damper on things.
And then Cate had the gall to go and cook up forbidden fruit for breakfast.
"Hey, you've said it to me yourself. You're not at home, you don't need to keep kosher."
The greasy, perfectly-crispy piece of forbidden fruit just sat there on the plate of toast, eggs, and breakfast meat she handed me, tempting me, taunting me until I finally gave in.
"No telling my dad," I told her, pointing with the tref treat in my hand.
"When am I even going to see him?" Cate asked.
"When Fiddler on the Roof comes back around, and he's free to fly out to see it," I fired back.
Cate didn't really have a response to that one.
Unfortunately, the rest of the conversation quickly petered out into nothing, especially when Cate turned on the TV to catch the morning news. Despite how light-hearted our initial exchange was, it didn't change the reality of why I'd been at her place to begin with.
And the day didn't get any better when my pager went off, and I recognized the Bugle's number. Or more specifically, John Jonah Jameson's extension.
Which led to me using Cate's shower, and then being driven by her to the Bugle building, because we both agreed it was not a good idea for me to be out on the streets of Manhattan alone right now.
Whatever it was that Jameson had for me, it was important enough that Betty Brant didn't even try to be a thorn in the side of whoever was trying to see her boss. The instant she saw me, the phone came off its cradle, and she let Jameson know I was here and heading in.
"Heard things got loud in your neck of the woods," Jameson said before I even finished closing the door behind me.
"Which one have you heard of so far?" I asked as I sat down in one of his chairs, hanging my purse on the arm.
"There was more than one?" Jameson asked, his tone incredulous as he turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. Then he scoffed. "Oh who am I kidding, of course there was more than one. I was talking about the light show, by the way."
And hadn't that been a rude awakening.
GREEN GOBLIN'S GLIDER GLITCHES OVER GREENWICH.
Yeah. That was absolutely not what I wanted to see on the morning news ticker. But it was definitely worth spending the five minutes calling up the Sanctum Sanctorum, and the twenty dollars of tea I owed Wong next time I dropped by. That man's tastes were more expensive than mine. And I called myself a tea snob?
Pfah, that man had me beat a dozen times over.
"Three thugs tried to toss my place," I told him. Jameson's eyebrows rose, and his jaw clenched; he was dangerously close to biting through the casing on his cigar. "The operative word is tried, don't worry. I had help."
"Good to hear, but not the problem." Jameson sat down at his desk and reached for a padded envelope on it. From inside the envelope he retrieved a VHS tape, and then Jameson stood to turn on a TV he had just off to the side, and slid the tape into a VCR built into the TV.
"Not sure if I should be telling you this," he said as the TV powered on, "but I've had a private eye watching Parker for a short while. Been trying to find a connection between Parker and Spider-Man, see if I couldn't drive a wedge in there, get the kid out from under whatever it is the webhead has on him. But it's been three months and thousands of dollars down the drain, with nothing to show for it.
"Until now."
Jameson pressed play on the VCR.
The camera looked to have been perched on the dashboard of a car. I recognized the outside of the Parker household on Ingram Street immediately, and according to a small clock in front of the lens on the dash, the footage was taken at 7:17pm, right before sunset. Nothing happened for about a minute, but I knew better than to say anything; if Jameson thought it was important enough to show me, I was going to trust his judgment.
Sure enough, movement at the right edge of the frame drew my attention. A trio of figures appeared in frame, the last vestiges of daylight casting long shadows along the street. The picture quality wasn't the greatest, but I could still tell they were wearing the same getup as the three that Erik had incapacitated at my apartment. They were even visibly carrying some of the same equipment – I could make out what was probably a tire iron in one thug's hands, and what was absolutely a sledgehammer resting on another's shoulder.
Then one of the thugs seemingly shoulder-checked the other two, and all three fell down. The sound was a bit muted, courtesy of the video camera being in a car, but even through a few layers of metal and glass, the camera still picked up their yelling.
Something fuzzy came from out of frame, and the tire iron, sledgehammer, and one other thing flew up and out of view, followed immediately by none other than Spider-Man dropping down from above. He fired off a few bits of webbing, and the thugs' yelling cut off. Then Spider-Man picked up all three thugs, webbed them together, jumped up, and hung the thugs just out of frame, probably from a tree I remembered seeing on the Parker home's street.
Spider-Man dropped down from out of frame, and looked directly into the camera lens. Ten seconds later, he jumped up onto the roof of the Parker household, walked along it until he was out of sight – and then presumably, he was gone.
The thing that struck me the most was that the whole time, Spider-Man was dead silent.
"I finally have it. Incontrovertible proof of a connection between Parker and Spider-Man," Jameson said as he pressed stop on the VCR, and ejected the tape. He held the VHS in one hand, and tapped it against the palm of the other while he paced alongside the windowed wall of his office. "Something I've been trying to get for over a year now, and I can't do jack shit with it."
"Come again?"
Jameson tossed the tape onto his desk. It landed on the envelope he'd pulled it out of and slid the rest of the way across the desk, coming to a stop directly in front of me.
"Don't play coy with me Noa. You basically drop my next Pulitzer in my lap, and the very same night, you and Parker get a hit squad sent your way? And less than a week after your office got tossed?" Jameson scowled, both hands flat on his desk as his cigar bobbed and weaved from one corner of his mouth to the other. "I have to look at the bigger picture here. But you mark my words," he said, raising one hand with finger extended. "It may take weeks, months, hell it may take years, but once this mess is done, there will be a reckoning with Spider-Man!"
Jameson practically roared that last promise to the heavens. But once that was done, he sagged back into his chair, seeming spent. He waved a hand at me, the other pulling his cigar from his mouth to inspect it.
"The tape's yours," he said. "Already had Betty make a copy. Dollars to donuts Osborn hired those thugs and the ones from your office. My expose linking him and his little espionage computer whatchamacallit to the Goblin probably won't be finished until well after you're through with it."
I picked up the VHS tape and slid it back into the envelope it came from, then slid it into my purse. Jameson stared at his cigar, seemed to deem it acceptable, and put it back in his mouth. His hands reached for his matchbook, but he glanced over my way and thought better of it.
I felt like I needed to say something. Like Jameson's perseverance deserved some payoff. Here he was, with exactly what he'd wanted… and the finger on the monkey's paw had curled, because he couldn't do shit with it.
"Jameson—"
"Jonah," he interrupted, cigar pointing at me. "Anyone who pulls me in on the ground floor of a big scoop deserves a bit of familiarity."
"Jonah, then," I said, pausing to collect my thoughts. "I… look. I understand where you're coming from on this, but…" I trailed off, still unsure how I wanted to put it.
"But?" Jameson – Jonah prompted.
I took a deep breath to get my thoughts together before speaking.
"I had a chance to sit down and talk with him," I said. "With Spider-Man."
Jonah stopped in his tracks. Just… went still.
"You're serious." It was less than a question, but not a full statement. More of an observation.
I nodded.
"He's… he's earnest," I said, thinking over the best way to say this. "And I know you have your concerns. About his relationship with Peter. It's… I think the best way to put it is that it's a combination of guilt and obligation."
"Guilt, huh?" Jonah said, latching onto the one word I knew he would.
"During what was Spider-Man's literal first day," I said, preparing to twist the truth so incredibly hard that it may as well have been a lie, "he wasn't particularly… well, careful. He lost track of someone, let them get away." I took a deep breath. "That same night, the one that got away killed May Parker."
Jonah didn't answer. He genuinely looked lost for words.
"I talked to both of them," I continued. "Peter has long forgiven Spider-Man – he blames himself instead, for not being home earlier that night. Because he thinks that if his lights had been on, the burglar wouldn't have broken in. And obviously, Spider-Man still blames himself for it. It's a circular thing, and—"
"Do you know who he is?" Jonah asked. "Under the mask. Do you know who Spider-Man is?"
"I didn't ask," I said, picking my words very carefully. Because the answer to Jonah's question… was yes. I did, in fact, know who Spider-Man was.
"Damn it, woman!" Jonah yelled, slamming a fist on the desk. "Stop lawyering me with this! Do. You. Know!?"
I didn't answer.
I simply leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and raised one eyebrow.
The tense silence continued for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Jonah seemed to remember himself, the snarl on his face softening to a sort of resigned frustration as he leaned back in his chair and turned it towards the window.
"I shouldn't have asked that." He stood up, looking down towards the streets below. "You're a good judge of character, Noa. Answer me this, honestly," he said, turning towards me. "No clever semantics, no lawyering. Is Spider-Man on the up and up?"
"I believe so," I said. But I did not elaborate further.
Jonah took that answer, turning it over in his head. He reached down and picked up a paper from his desk, an older one with Spider-Man plastered on the front page; I remembered that issue from back in April, when Spider-Man slingshotted the Rhino straight into the Hudson.
"Vouch for him all you like," Jonah said, tossing the paper back down onto his desk. "I'm not going to stop giving him shit. Somebody needs to give these masked menaces a reason to stay on the straight and narrow, and damn if I let that be somebody else!" He pointed at me with his cigar. "You tell him I said that, next time you see him. If he goes up the waterspout, down comes the rain. Understood?"
"Absolutely," I said, standing up from my chair. "I'll get this tape to the FBI and legal. Do you happen to have the business card of the PI who took this, by the way?" I remembered to ask. "And can you let him know people will be in touch?"
"Ah, knew I forgot something." Jonah reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, then retrieved a business card and handed it over. "MacDonald Gargan. Man's a professional; if you ever need a PI, he's worth every goddamn penny you spend on him, and then some."
"Good to know," I said, putting the business card away. After all these years as an attorney, I already knew that a good PI was worth their weight in gold, but getting a voucher from a journalist of John Jonah Jameson's caliber was an extra cherry on top. "I'll be in touch. Take care, Jonah."
"You watch your back out there, Noa!" Jonah said as I turned to leave. "And don't drop your guard if Osborn lays low for a few days!"
"Wouldn't dream of it!" I called back as I left his office.
When I got downstairs and filled Cate in, she looked as though Christmas came early.
And later, when I did the same for Sam, he looked like he'd just been told Fiddler was being brought back on Broadway.
… look, a girl can dream, alright?
Friday, June 29, 1990
The plans were made. The trap was set. And all the players were in position… including the one only I knew about.
Ben Parker and I sat down in a conference room at the New York County Supreme Court at 8:15am. The wooden partition, usually used to give a defendant coming in from holding the privacy to change from a prison jumpsuit to court clothes, was extended behind us, cutting our side of the room short. Putting our backs to the walls, as it were.
What was slated as the second attempt to depose Norman Osborn was set to happen at 8:30am.
So it was absolutely zero surprise that Norman Osborn and his legal team, Jason Babbage et al., walked in at 9:07am. All of them looked a bit stiff, but Norman in particular was almost rickety with how he was walking, like he was in a fair bit of pain.
Well, I supposed bouncing off of the Sanctum Sanctorum's defenses would do that to you.
"Noa," Babbage greeted me with a nod. "I heard about your office. My condolences."
"Jason." I stood up and offered my hand to shake. He took it. "Contractors said it'll be workable in a few weeks, and my clientele was understanding."
"Glad to hear it." His eyes panned over the conference room, looking for a certain something I knew wouldn't be coming. "I would've thought the stenographer would be here already."
"There have been a few… emergent circumstances," I said, picking my words carefully as we all sat back down. "Findings in the investigation of my office's vandalism have raised an irreconcilable conflict of interest. I have already filed with and received permission from the judge, and am hereby stepping down as Mr. Parker's legal counsel."
I reached into my briefcase and handed over copies of the motion, dated two days ago, and signed by myself, Ben Parker, and the judge.
"I see," Babbage said, taking the paper from me. Norman Osborn, meanwhile, sat back in his chair with a grin of smug superiority. Yes, his thugs had failed to do any meaningful damage to my home or the Parkers, and he had to know that. But in his mind, the main crux of his objective, stripping Ben Parker's legal armor, had been accomplished.
Time to disabuse him of that notion.
"I did, however, arrange for replacement counsel," I said, and turned towards the door. Right on cue, it opened.
And Sam Lieberman walked into the conference room.
Norman didn't have any particular reaction to seeing one of the most dangerous litigators in the entire country walk into the room. His entourage, on the other hand?
I bore witness to a full dozen grown men go pale in unison, eyes bugging out and jaws dropping.
Mine and Sam's mirrored grins were positively feral.
"Norman Osborn!" Sam reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick wad of papers. He slammed them down on the desk in front of Osborn. "Congratulations. You've been served."
Norman's jaw dropped, confusion and disbelief warring on his face. Babbage turned towards me, just as confused, but equally angry.
"I did say that I could no longer represent Mr. Parker due to an irreconcilable conflict of interest," I said, raising one eyebrow. "That is because I, alongside a fair few other plaintiffs, am filing suit against Norman Osborn and Oscorp. I have retained Sam Lieberman here as my legal counsel, and the other parties elected to have him handle service of involved parties." I looked to Babbage. "Both Oscorp and Norman himself are named as separate entities, so…"
"Jason Babbage!" Sam said, his voice positively gleeful as he pulled out yet another set of the same stack of papers, and slammed them down in front of Babbage. "You have been served."
"W-wait!" Babbage said, recovering before any of the other lawyers Osborn had brought. "On what grounds?"
"Uncompetitive practices, corporate espionage, and a few other things I don't feel like mentioning right now," Sam said with a dismissive wave. "You have eyes. You can read."
"I'm sorry," Norman said. He leaned forward in his seat, elbows on the table, hands in the air and palms facing up. A more classic 'oh no, I'm innocent and confused' pose, I had never seen… not that it fooled anyone here. "Uncompetitive practices? Espionage?" Norman's face still held an easygoing smile. But it failed to reach his eyes.
And I could see the skin tightening around them.
"I don't know what kind of fantasy you've concocted here," he said, lips peeling back to bare his teeth. "But if you think I'm going to take this lying down—"
The door to the conference room opened again, cutting Norman off at the knees as yet another party made themselves known.
This time, it was Cate Caine, along with a cadre of two fellow FBI agents, all three of them with pistols and badges proudly displayed on their hips.
"Are you Norman Osborn, CEO of Oscorp, and Jason Babbage, General Counsel for Oscorp?"
"You know damn well who I am," Norman snarled, rising from his seat. "What is the meaning of this?"
"FBI Special Agent in Charge Catherine Caine," Cate said, pulling her badge out and displaying it. "You are both wanted for questioning regarding allegations of corporate espionage, market manipulation, and more. As we speak, my agents are executing search warrants at Oscorp's main building. While I understand you both are a little busy at the moment," Cate flashed a smile in mine and Sam's direction, "you are both expected to present yourselves for questioning upon request. Failure to comply will result in additional penalties, both in the forms of fines and jail time. Do you understand what I have told you?"
"I understand," Osborn ground out through gritted teeth.
"Yes," Jason Babbage said, standing up. A motion of his hand had the other eleven lawyers Norman brought with him all standing up. "Mr. Osborn, due to new and developing circumstances, Oscorp's legal counsel cannot represent both you and the corporation as separate entities in these proceedings. You are advised to find and retain outside counsel, and to cease all communication with Oscorp's in-house counsel until such time as you have secured representation for yourself."
"What!?" Norman snarled. He rounded on Babbage, who took two quick steps back. "You spineless, little—"
"I was brought on to represent the interests of Oscorp first," Babbage said. "Mr. Lieberman, Agent Caine, if we may step outside for a brief initial discussion before I return to the office?"
"Of course," Cate said. Sam, for his part, merely nodded.
All of this happened quickly enough that Osborn didn't really have a chance to react, beyond simply watching in dumbfounded disbelief as the majority of the bodies in the room spilled out. The clamor of over a dozen pairs of feet faded as they all left, and Sam Lieberman gave me a wink and a nod before closing the door.
Not all that long ago, I had told Ben Parker that he must never allow himself to be alone in a room with Norman Osborn. But that was exactly what had happened.
Ben Parker and I sat on one side of the table. Norman Osborn stood across from us, his poleaxed expression dissolving into a hideous, snarling beast.
"Normally, speaking to one party without counsel present would see me sanctioned," I mused out loud, giving Norman pause. "However, since I am no longer representing Mr. Parker, that issue goes out the window. Indeed, it's actually preferable that parties meet without attorneys present to try and resolve disputes without any intervention from the courts.
"To that end, Mr. Osborn." I laced my fingers on the table in front of me. "It seems that you will be a very busy man in the near future. At least half a dozen plaintiffs, each with their own offices of general counsel and chief legal officers to hound you. Not having a lawyer of your own armed and ready to go. Facing a criminal investigation; my, my. It doesn't very much look like you have the time to pursue a claim against poor Mr. Parker, now does it? And indeed," I said with a grin, "one that you yourself admitted wasn't at all about the money."
"You little bitch," Osborn said with a grimace, his fists white-knuckled on the table. He turned towards Ben Parker with a glare. "You win, Parker. Now get out."
"Thank you, Norman," Ben said with more grace than I expected him to in this situation, a serene smile on his face. "For doing the right thing." He looked at me, a question in his eyes. I merely gave him a smile and a nod.
With that, Ben Parker gathered his things, stood up, and left the room.
Leaving me alone with Norman Osborn.
"Well, well, well…"
Norman's glare was downright predatory. He less leaned over the table than hunched, as if ready to pounce on top of me at any moment.
"It's just you and me, little girl. Just us, all, alone."
Being this close to him had my skin crawling, and were it not for a few other factors in play, I knew I would be so terrified I couldn't speak. Hell, I was still scared, very much so. But I had a part to play in this.
And a good actress never forgets her lines.
"You seem to be operating under a misconception, Mr. Osborn," I said, keeping my voice neutral, and my face placid.
"Oh?" Norman stood up from his chair, hands flat on the table, the sneer on his face growing by the second. "And what is that?"
I smiled, and raised one hand.
"Simple. You are not the most dangerous person in this room."
I snapped my fingers.
And six lengths of braided steel cord flew out from underneath the table, twining around Norman Osborn's limbs, torso, and mouth. They rushed forward with such force that they carried him back into the chair he'd stood up from, which sat in place despite the momentum Norman landed with. Then, once the cords had wrapped themselves around Norman and his seat, the mahogany chair lifted five feet into the air and flipped upside down.
And finally, Magneto emerged from where he'd hidden behind the privacy screen fifteen minutes before Ben Parker and I ever entered the room.
"You really should have just left well enough alone," I said, standing up from my chair and stalking forward. The click of my heels on the floor was enough to drown out Norman's strained muttering, his augmented strength nowhere near enough to speak through a solid steel gag. "But no. You had to keep pushing. And now, you reap what you sow."
I stepped up to Norman, and gave a delicate tap to the side of the chair he sat in. Magneto, ever the gracious helper, set him to gently spinning.
"From here on out, the Green Goblin is dead," I told him, and couldn't suppress the wicked delight I felt when his eyes widened, then narrowed. "He died when he impacted the Sorcerer Supreme's defenses. And really, it's for the best. You're about to be embroiled in multiple investigations. Norman Osborn being unaccounted for only when the Green Goblin is out and about? My oh my, I wonder how long it'll take for them to put that together."
Norman's red-faced spitting and sputtering didn't get past the gag. Thankfully for both of us, his spittle didn't either.
"And more importantly, Norman?" I put a finger on the arm of the floating chair and Magneto obliged, stopping it in place for me. "None of your little games. You are to be a good little boy, and leave well enough alone. You will not so much as think of doing anything that would harm Harry, Peter, Ben, myself, or anyone else even tangentially connected to us."
I leaned in close, my lips right next to his ear.
"If anything happens to us," I whispered to him. "If any of us so much as chip a nail, and there is even the slightest inkling that you had something to do with it? You will die." Norman froze. "Oh, it won't necessarily be immediate. But at any moment, any time, any day. In the space between blinks, your body will be dead.
"And in the scant few seconds it takes your brain to recognize what has happened, I want you to remember that it was all. Your. Fault. Nod if you understand me."
Norman's eyes went wide, and he nodded so furiously that had his chair not been held fast, it would have been rocking up a storm.
My smile didn't reach my eyes.
I stepped away from Norman, walked back to my side of the table, and took up position next to Magneto. Then, I snapped my fingers.
The bindings holding Norman Osborn to the chair fell away, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap. He stumbled to his feet as quickly as he could, swaying and staggering as he tried to reacclimate to being upright.
"Oh, and Norman?" I said, smiling sweetly. "You speak a word of this to anyone, and that promise will be made good on. Understood?"
Norman simply stared at me, pupils narrowed down to a pinprick, teeth grinding so hard I could hear it.
Then he staggered out of the room, not even bothering to see if the door closed behind him.
I counted to five seconds, then ten, then fifteen. Finally, when I could no longer hear any sign that somebody was coming in, I let out an exhale, walked the three shaky steps over to my chair, and slumped down in it. Erik floated back behind the curtain as I closed my eyes and collected myself, taking deep breaths, holding, and exhaling until I felt like my heart wasn't going to beat out of my chest.
"I am never, ever, doing that again," I told Erik as he walked out from behind the screen, his other half safely hidden away in a small suitcase. "Holy shit. Holy shit."
"You played your part magnificently, my dear." Erik put a hand on my shoulder, and I grabbed onto him, focusing on my breathing to try and calm the shakes. I could feel the adrenaline crash, that sudden exhaustion where you just felt tired, and shaky, and cold.
Right now, I wanted nothing more than to just curl up on the sofa with a hot mug of tea.
"Thank you again for helping, Erik," I told him. "I'm sorry to keep imposing on you."
"Nonsense, my dear." Erik favored me with a smile, and then helped me to my feet. "Now, go. Celebrate. Perhaps it is not the victory you were after, but it is the one you have received. And it shall be all the sweeter for it."
Before Erik could protest, I swooped in for a hug. It was a careful one, otherwise I would have broken my glamour. But a hug was a hug.
"Just wait five minutes and the coast should be clear, okay?" I told him as I pulled back from the hug. Erik gave me a nod, and hid back behind the screen.
I took a few more minutes to collect myself, put my game face back on. Then I exited the conference room, walked back out to the lobby, and met up with Ben, Sam, and Cate. Neither Osborn nor what was formerly his personal legal team was anywhere in sight.
"Everything handled?" Sam asked, and I met him with a smile and a nod.
"The suit against Ben Parker should be dropped within the day. Congratulations on your fastest successful case," I told Sam. "You were Ben's lawyer for what, fifteen minutes? Twenty?"
"Since Monday, technically," Sam said, buffing his nails on his lapel. "I'm good, but I'm no Perry Mason!"
All of us shared a good laugh at that one.
"Is it safe for you to go back to your place?" Cate asked.
"Yes," I told her.
"Okay good," she said with a conspiratorial grin. "Now I'm back to only having the cats poking holes in my bedding and cushions!"
I crossed my arms and leveled a stare at Cate, even as both Sam and Ben laughed.
"Well, there goes that cashmere sweater I was going to get you for Christmas," I deadpanned.
Cate mock-gasped. Sam and Ben both just laughed harder.
Sunday, June 31, 1990
I wasn't normally one for celebrating with the client after a case finished. Oh, there were certainly exceptions – Jacques Canter and the copious quantity of top-shelf wine, champagne, and liquor we treated anyone and everyone to certainly came to mind. But that was very much the exception, as opposed to the rule.
Today, though, was another one of those exceptions, I thought to myself as I sat on the back patio of the Parker house on Ingram Street. It wasn't often that I became so personally involved in a case, much less without my consent.
And I also sincerely hoped that this was the last time any of my cases ended in a similar manner.
"How do you like your steak?" Ben asked, tongs in hand.
"If I ever say something other than medium rare, it's an imposter," I said.
I'd gone to my butcher and told him to pick out the three best steaks he had, and that cost wasn't an object. He asked if it was cause for celebration, and when I said it was, he tried to not charge me.
So when he handed me the steaks, I shoved two hundred-dollar bills into his tip jar and left before he could stop me.
"Same," Peter said, not looking up from the chunky GameBoy playing the eminently recognizable sound of Tetris.
Peter initially turned up his nose when he realized I brought kosher meat, but quickly changed his tune when he saw the ribeyes. I didn't blame him, really; kosher meat had a bit of a bad reputation, mostly born of half-assed koshering that only cared about satisfying the requirements, but not preserving flavor.
This was why you didn't buy kosher meat in a grocery store, unless it was, like, chicken for stock or soup. If you were planning to cook the meat for a proper meat dish, you went to a butcher.
"Ah, how much did this cost, by the by?" Ben asked.
"Gratis," I said with a wave, fudging the truth a bit. "When you've been going to the same butcher for over a decade and tell them it's time to celebrate, they get a bit generous."
"Tell me about it," Ben said with a smile. "That's my local dry cleaner's. Every time my birthday or Christmas rolls around, they try not to charge me. I just leave it in the tip jar," he finished with a shrug.
I merely gave him a conspiratorial grin and a meaningful look at the grill. He chuckled.
"Having fun there, Peter?" I asked.
"Trying to beat Harry's high score," he said, still focused intently on the screen. Thankfully the sun was still in the process of setting, so he had plenty of light to see it by. "It's his GameBoy, actually. He just beat all the games he has for it, so he's seeing if I can beat his scores before trying again."
"Fair enough." I sat back in the chair and looked over towards the city, eyeing the skyline. The World Trade Center dominated, but if you looked just right, you could spot both the Stark Industries and Baxter Buildings through the gap between them. Oscorp's own skyscraper was hidden behind the first tower, and just wasn't worth looking at.
Yesterday, the Bugle broke the news that it had a scoop, and that the great John Jonah Jameson himself was doing the sleuthing on this one. The news cycle was abuzz with rumors of what it could be… for all of twenty minutes before another supervillain attack happened, and the Fantastic Four filed out of the Baxter Building to handle the cosmic calamity du jour.
Speaking of… huh, that was Johnny Storm flying out of the Baxter Building.
"You see that?" I asked Peter, knowing his eyesight was better than mine.
"Huh?" Peter looked up and towards the Manhattan skyline, eyes fixed on where the Human Torch was burning a path towards Uptown. Harlem, maybe? Hell's Kitchen? "Oh, it's just Johnny. Wonder what he's doing right now."
"Just Johnny, huh?" Ben asked, a teasing tone in his voice. "Anything I need to know?"
"Eh…" Peter waved a hand. "Challenged Spidey to a race from the Brooklyn Bridge to Central Park, then sandbagged. I got a picture of Spidey halfway through the Bugle before Johnny showed up." He shrugged. "Jameson didn't run it."
"Shame," I said. "You still have the negative? I'll pay you for a print."
"Oh, sure!" Peter said. "Uh… hey Uncle Ben, how much should I charge for that?"
"How much does the Bugle pay for a front page marquee?" Ben asked. "I'd say the same amount."
"That'll do," I added before Peter could protest. "Guess you need to find a darkroom, then."
"I'll just use the one at Midtown Prep," Peter said. "It's open to students over the summer."
"Speaking of the summer," I said, taking the segue while it was there. "Any plans? You're going into your senior year, right? Maybe think about visiting some college campuses, decide where you want to apply?" I leaned in conspiratorially. "Might I suggest my own alma mater, NYU?"
"I, uh, I don't know," Peter said, looking a bit unsure. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ben frown a bit as he flipped the steaks. "I was gonna apply for Columbia, but it's so expensive, you know? I mean, I'm probably gonna have to only go part-time and pay my way with work at the Bugle, and I don't know if I can even afford that. Plus, still gotta keep the neighborhood friendly, you know?" he asked.
"... Peter, when do you turn eighteen?" I asked.
"Uh, August 27?" Peter half-asked, half-said. "Why? Is it important?"
I nodded.
"When you turn eighteen, talk to JJ. He told me a little while back that while he's only legally allowed to give you so much for your photos because you're underage, they are worth a lot more than just that," I told him. "He's had your full earnings deposited into a trust for when you come of age."
"Full earnings?" Ben asked, turning to me. "Noa, how much are we talking? A few thousand? Ten, fifteen grand?"
"Ben, your nephew essentially has a monopoly on the copyright for photographs of Spider-Man," I said. "Any time a newspaper, magazine, or TV station ran a picture of Spider-Man, they had to pay both Peter and the Bugle for the rights to the picture. Given how Spidey is more popular among younger audiences than the Four or the Avengers?"
I frowned, running some mental math in my head.
"I think you'll have more than enough to afford full tuition and a studio apartment near campus. Before any merit scholarships," I added. "And if you think for even half a second that you won't be getting any merit scholarships, I have a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn."
I glanced up at Ben, who looked a little stunned.
Then I turned to see Peter, who had completely forgotten the GameBoy in his hands, let the screen fill up, and got a Game Over.
"... Ben, you may want to check on the steaks," I said, snapping him out of his reverie. Ben hustled over to the grill and pulled the steaks off.
Peter, meanwhile, was still in la la land. Not even snapping my fingers in front of his face was enough to pull him back down to earth. But you know what? I didn't blame him.
I had more or less the same reaction when that one verdict got read out. There was no pulling him back until we had food to put in front of him, and the steaks needed to rest.
So instead,I leaned back in my chair and looked back over the city, and watched as Johnny Storm flew after what looked for all the world like a shooting star.
Chapter Twenty-One
Monday, June 25, 1990
While Erik tied up the three goons that had broken into my home, I called Cate and told her what had happened, then made another pair of calls.
Cate was probably out the door within thirty seconds of hanging up the phone with me, and managed to arrive at my front door forty-five minutes later, accompanied by a trio of FBI agents.
"Noa," Cate started as she circled the three thugs unconscious on my floor. "I love you, but there is no way on God's green earth you did this yourself."
"She didn't."
Cate flinched violently at the sudden voice, one of her arms pushing me behind while the other pulled her sidearm from her hip. I noticed that the other three FBI agents she brought with her had similar reactions, though one of them fumbled with his holster long enough that he scored a look from the other two.
For his part, Erik merely looked amused, even with four guns leveled in his direction.
"Noa?" Cate asked, not looking back.
"He's friendly," I said with a sigh, then glared at Erik. "Really? You had to be a drama queen now?"
Infuriatingly, all he did was smile.
"Erik Lehnsherr, Mossad," he said. "I am afraid this is all that even your superiors are cleared to know. These men," he waved his hand at the thugs on my floor, "were incapacitated by my hand."
"Care to explain what an Israeli spook is doing stateside?" Cate asked, voice tight with suspicion. I huffed, then pushed myself out from behind her to stand beside Erik.
"Cate, cool it," I told her. "Everyone, this is Erik. Family friend and probably would've been named my godfather if he wasn't off being a secret agent, I trust him implicitly, so please put the guns away in my home!"
My voice had risen to a shrill shriek by the end of that, and I didn't honestly care. The tensions were too high, there were guns being aimed in my home, it was after eleven o'clock at night, I was exhausted, I wanted to sleep so badly I was on the verge of tears, and it looked more and more like that was even more hours away.
"Stand down, people!" Cate called, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Jones, Miller, cuff the crooks and get them down to the van. Burns, take the spook's statement." Cate holstered her gun and walked up to me, then wrapped an arm around my shoulders and started guiding me towards the back, shooting a glare over her shoulder at Erik along the way. "And you are not staying here tonight. Do you have an overnight bag?"
"Closet on the left," I said right as she was about to drag me past it.
Cate stopped to open the closet door, pulled out my small wheeled suitcase, closed the closet door, and then finished dragging me back into my bedroom. She tossed the suitcase onto my bed, closed the door, and sat down on my bed with a sigh.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Noa, you really don't do anything by halves, do you?" Now that she wasn't putting up a strong front for the agents under her command, Cate looked exactly as tired as I did. Now that I thought about it, she had probably barely gotten in her own front door when I called, and I wouldn't be surprised if she'd had to pull all three of the agents currently in my living room out of bed for this.
"It's not like I planned for any of this," I snarked back, opening my closet and drawers, and pulling out what clothes I would need for a few days. When I realized I was being too rough with my clothes and unfolding them, I paused to take a deep breath. "I… sorry, Cate. I'm, it's just… first my office, now this?"
"No, it's okay," she said, standing up from the bed. "I get it. This is just – wait. Noa, what about your client?"
"I gave him a call after I hung up with you," I told her. "Said he was fine, wouldn't elaborate."
"Okay, I'll make sure to have someone check on him in the morning." Cate walked over to my bathroom door. "Here, let me help. You have a toiletries bag?"
"Under the sink!"
I heard Cate's footsteps on my bathroom floor, followed by the cabinet under my sink opening and closing, so I turned back to my clothing situation. A garment bag carrying my favorite skirt suit found its way onto the doorknob as a just-in-case; meanwhile, my suitcase rapidly filled with a few blouses, skirts, a dress, enough underthings for double what I thought I'd need, and my spare pairs of heels and flats. The makeup bag from my vanity and my glasses case went on top, and I probably only had just enough room for toiletries once Cate finished up in the bathroom.
"Hey Noa?" Cate's voice came from the bathroom.
"Yeah?" I asked.
"I can't find your razor!"
"Uh…" I blinked, walking up to the bathroom door. "I don't have one?"
Cate stopped and looked up from the drawer she was rummaging through, travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner in her hands.
"You… don't have a razor," she said slowly, voice dripping with disbelief.
"... no?"
Cate stood up straight and stared at me, mouth slightly ajar.
"You… don't shave?"
"Cate." I hooked a finger on one of my horns. "I don't have body hair. I have scales."
"Wait." Cate went back under my sink, and pulled out a loofah. "Is this for…?"
"T-that's, uh," I stuttered, feeling myself start to blush as I looked away to not meet her eyes. "That's for when, uh. When my scales shed. Every few months."
"... the liver and onion cravings?" she asked.
"..." I refused to answer, but I was pretty sure my blush told her everything she needed to know.
Cate looked at the loofah in her hand, and I saw her trying to keep her shoulders from shaking.
"I-it's not funny," I protested. Cate just shook her head and handed me my toiletries bag before leaving the bathroom. I checked to make sure it had everything before I zipped it up and followed her. "It's not! Cate!"
"Come on, little lizard," Cate said as she took my zipped-up toiletries bag from my hand, tossed it in my suitcase before she zipped that up too. "And no shedding in the car!"
"Cate, I swear to God…"
Tuesday, June 26, 1990
Sleeping over at Cate's was usually a fun time, because her cats Chester (an orange tabby) and Lester (a Siamese) particularly liked me, so I got to snooze while surrounded by soft, purring blobs of fur and love.
It wasn't much of one, though, because instead of being there because we had a bit too much fun the night before, I was crashing at her place for my own protection. Which, well, put a damper on things.
And then Cate had the gall to go and cook up forbidden fruit for breakfast.
"Hey, you've said it to me yourself. You're not at home, you don't need to keep kosher."
The greasy, perfectly-crispy piece of forbidden fruit just sat there on the plate of toast, eggs, and breakfast meat she handed me, tempting me, taunting me until I finally gave in.
"No telling my dad," I told her, pointing with the tref treat in my hand.
"When am I even going to see him?" Cate asked.
"When Fiddler on the Roof comes back around, and he's free to fly out to see it," I fired back.
Cate didn't really have a response to that one.
Unfortunately, the rest of the conversation quickly petered out into nothing, especially when Cate turned on the TV to catch the morning news. Despite how light-hearted our initial exchange was, it didn't change the reality of why I'd been at her place to begin with.
And the day didn't get any better when my pager went off, and I recognized the Bugle's number. Or more specifically, John Jonah Jameson's extension.
Which led to me using Cate's shower, and then being driven by her to the Bugle building, because we both agreed it was not a good idea for me to be out on the streets of Manhattan alone right now.
Whatever it was that Jameson had for me, it was important enough that Betty Brant didn't even try to be a thorn in the side of whoever was trying to see her boss. The instant she saw me, the phone came off its cradle, and she let Jameson know I was here and heading in.
"Heard things got loud in your neck of the woods," Jameson said before I even finished closing the door behind me.
"Which one have you heard of so far?" I asked as I sat down in one of his chairs, hanging my purse on the arm.
"There was more than one?" Jameson asked, his tone incredulous as he turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. Then he scoffed. "Oh who am I kidding, of course there was more than one. I was talking about the light show, by the way."
And hadn't that been a rude awakening.
GREEN GOBLIN'S GLIDER GLITCHES OVER GREENWICH.
Yeah. That was absolutely not what I wanted to see on the morning news ticker. But it was definitely worth spending the five minutes calling up the Sanctum Sanctorum, and the twenty dollars of tea I owed Wong next time I dropped by. That man's tastes were more expensive than mine. And I called myself a tea snob?
Pfah, that man had me beat a dozen times over.
"Three thugs tried to toss my place," I told him. Jameson's eyebrows rose, and his jaw clenched; he was dangerously close to biting through the casing on his cigar. "The operative word is tried, don't worry. I had help."
"Good to hear, but not the problem." Jameson sat down at his desk and reached for a padded envelope on it. From inside the envelope he retrieved a VHS tape, and then Jameson stood to turn on a TV he had just off to the side, and slid the tape into a VCR built into the TV.
"Not sure if I should be telling you this," he said as the TV powered on, "but I've had a private eye watching Parker for a short while. Been trying to find a connection between Parker and Spider-Man, see if I couldn't drive a wedge in there, get the kid out from under whatever it is the webhead has on him. But it's been three months and thousands of dollars down the drain, with nothing to show for it.
"Until now."
Jameson pressed play on the VCR.
The camera looked to have been perched on the dashboard of a car. I recognized the outside of the Parker household on Ingram Street immediately, and according to a small clock in front of the lens on the dash, the footage was taken at 7:17pm, right before sunset. Nothing happened for about a minute, but I knew better than to say anything; if Jameson thought it was important enough to show me, I was going to trust his judgment.
Sure enough, movement at the right edge of the frame drew my attention. A trio of figures appeared in frame, the last vestiges of daylight casting long shadows along the street. The picture quality wasn't the greatest, but I could still tell they were wearing the same getup as the three that Erik had incapacitated at my apartment. They were even visibly carrying some of the same equipment – I could make out what was probably a tire iron in one thug's hands, and what was absolutely a sledgehammer resting on another's shoulder.
Then one of the thugs seemingly shoulder-checked the other two, and all three fell down. The sound was a bit muted, courtesy of the video camera being in a car, but even through a few layers of metal and glass, the camera still picked up their yelling.
Something fuzzy came from out of frame, and the tire iron, sledgehammer, and one other thing flew up and out of view, followed immediately by none other than Spider-Man dropping down from above. He fired off a few bits of webbing, and the thugs' yelling cut off. Then Spider-Man picked up all three thugs, webbed them together, jumped up, and hung the thugs just out of frame, probably from a tree I remembered seeing on the Parker home's street.
Spider-Man dropped down from out of frame, and looked directly into the camera lens. Ten seconds later, he jumped up onto the roof of the Parker household, walked along it until he was out of sight – and then presumably, he was gone.
The thing that struck me the most was that the whole time, Spider-Man was dead silent.
"I finally have it. Incontrovertible proof of a connection between Parker and Spider-Man," Jameson said as he pressed stop on the VCR, and ejected the tape. He held the VHS in one hand, and tapped it against the palm of the other while he paced alongside the windowed wall of his office. "Something I've been trying to get for over a year now, and I can't do jack shit with it."
"Come again?"
Jameson tossed the tape onto his desk. It landed on the envelope he'd pulled it out of and slid the rest of the way across the desk, coming to a stop directly in front of me.
"Don't play coy with me Noa. You basically drop my next Pulitzer in my lap, and the very same night, you and Parker get a hit squad sent your way? And less than a week after your office got tossed?" Jameson scowled, both hands flat on his desk as his cigar bobbed and weaved from one corner of his mouth to the other. "I have to look at the bigger picture here. But you mark my words," he said, raising one hand with finger extended. "It may take weeks, months, hell it may take years, but once this mess is done, there will be a reckoning with Spider-Man!"
Jameson practically roared that last promise to the heavens. But once that was done, he sagged back into his chair, seeming spent. He waved a hand at me, the other pulling his cigar from his mouth to inspect it.
"The tape's yours," he said. "Already had Betty make a copy. Dollars to donuts Osborn hired those thugs and the ones from your office. My expose linking him and his little espionage computer whatchamacallit to the Goblin probably won't be finished until well after you're through with it."
I picked up the VHS tape and slid it back into the envelope it came from, then slid it into my purse. Jameson stared at his cigar, seemed to deem it acceptable, and put it back in his mouth. His hands reached for his matchbook, but he glanced over my way and thought better of it.
I felt like I needed to say something. Like Jameson's perseverance deserved some payoff. Here he was, with exactly what he'd wanted… and the finger on the monkey's paw had curled, because he couldn't do shit with it.
"Jameson—"
"Jonah," he interrupted, cigar pointing at me. "Anyone who pulls me in on the ground floor of a big scoop deserves a bit of familiarity."
"Jonah, then," I said, pausing to collect my thoughts. "I… look. I understand where you're coming from on this, but…" I trailed off, still unsure how I wanted to put it.
"But?" Jameson – Jonah prompted.
I took a deep breath to get my thoughts together before speaking.
"I had a chance to sit down and talk with him," I said. "With Spider-Man."
Jonah stopped in his tracks. Just… went still.
"You're serious." It was less than a question, but not a full statement. More of an observation.
I nodded.
"He's… he's earnest," I said, thinking over the best way to say this. "And I know you have your concerns. About his relationship with Peter. It's… I think the best way to put it is that it's a combination of guilt and obligation."
"Guilt, huh?" Jonah said, latching onto the one word I knew he would.
"During what was Spider-Man's literal first day," I said, preparing to twist the truth so incredibly hard that it may as well have been a lie, "he wasn't particularly… well, careful. He lost track of someone, let them get away." I took a deep breath. "That same night, the one that got away killed May Parker."
Jonah didn't answer. He genuinely looked lost for words.
"I talked to both of them," I continued. "Peter has long forgiven Spider-Man – he blames himself instead, for not being home earlier that night. Because he thinks that if his lights had been on, the burglar wouldn't have broken in. And obviously, Spider-Man still blames himself for it. It's a circular thing, and—"
"Do you know who he is?" Jonah asked. "Under the mask. Do you know who Spider-Man is?"
"I didn't ask," I said, picking my words very carefully. Because the answer to Jonah's question… was yes. I did, in fact, know who Spider-Man was.
"Damn it, woman!" Jonah yelled, slamming a fist on the desk. "Stop lawyering me with this! Do. You. Know!?"
I didn't answer.
I simply leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and raised one eyebrow.
The tense silence continued for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Jonah seemed to remember himself, the snarl on his face softening to a sort of resigned frustration as he leaned back in his chair and turned it towards the window.
"I shouldn't have asked that." He stood up, looking down towards the streets below. "You're a good judge of character, Noa. Answer me this, honestly," he said, turning towards me. "No clever semantics, no lawyering. Is Spider-Man on the up and up?"
"I believe so," I said. But I did not elaborate further.
Jonah took that answer, turning it over in his head. He reached down and picked up a paper from his desk, an older one with Spider-Man plastered on the front page; I remembered that issue from back in April, when Spider-Man slingshotted the Rhino straight into the Hudson.
"Vouch for him all you like," Jonah said, tossing the paper back down onto his desk. "I'm not going to stop giving him shit. Somebody needs to give these masked menaces a reason to stay on the straight and narrow, and damn if I let that be somebody else!" He pointed at me with his cigar. "You tell him I said that, next time you see him. If he goes up the waterspout, down comes the rain. Understood?"
"Absolutely," I said, standing up from my chair. "I'll get this tape to the FBI and legal. Do you happen to have the business card of the PI who took this, by the way?" I remembered to ask. "And can you let him know people will be in touch?"
"Ah, knew I forgot something." Jonah reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, then retrieved a business card and handed it over. "MacDonald Gargan. Man's a professional; if you ever need a PI, he's worth every goddamn penny you spend on him, and then some."
"Good to know," I said, putting the business card away. After all these years as an attorney, I already knew that a good PI was worth their weight in gold, but getting a voucher from a journalist of John Jonah Jameson's caliber was an extra cherry on top. "I'll be in touch. Take care, Jonah."
"You watch your back out there, Noa!" Jonah said as I turned to leave. "And don't drop your guard if Osborn lays low for a few days!"
"Wouldn't dream of it!" I called back as I left his office.
When I got downstairs and filled Cate in, she looked as though Christmas came early.
And later, when I did the same for Sam, he looked like he'd just been told Fiddler was being brought back on Broadway.
… look, a girl can dream, alright?
Friday, June 29, 1990
The plans were made. The trap was set. And all the players were in position… including the one only I knew about.
Ben Parker and I sat down in a conference room at the New York County Supreme Court at 8:15am. The wooden partition, usually used to give a defendant coming in from holding the privacy to change from a prison jumpsuit to court clothes, was extended behind us, cutting our side of the room short. Putting our backs to the walls, as it were.
What was slated as the second attempt to depose Norman Osborn was set to happen at 8:30am.
So it was absolutely zero surprise that Norman Osborn and his legal team, Jason Babbage et al., walked in at 9:07am. All of them looked a bit stiff, but Norman in particular was almost rickety with how he was walking, like he was in a fair bit of pain.
Well, I supposed bouncing off of the Sanctum Sanctorum's defenses would do that to you.
"Noa," Babbage greeted me with a nod. "I heard about your office. My condolences."
"Jason." I stood up and offered my hand to shake. He took it. "Contractors said it'll be workable in a few weeks, and my clientele was understanding."
"Glad to hear it." His eyes panned over the conference room, looking for a certain something I knew wouldn't be coming. "I would've thought the stenographer would be here already."
"There have been a few… emergent circumstances," I said, picking my words carefully as we all sat back down. "Findings in the investigation of my office's vandalism have raised an irreconcilable conflict of interest. I have already filed with and received permission from the judge, and am hereby stepping down as Mr. Parker's legal counsel."
I reached into my briefcase and handed over copies of the motion, dated two days ago, and signed by myself, Ben Parker, and the judge.
"I see," Babbage said, taking the paper from me. Norman Osborn, meanwhile, sat back in his chair with a grin of smug superiority. Yes, his thugs had failed to do any meaningful damage to my home or the Parkers, and he had to know that. But in his mind, the main crux of his objective, stripping Ben Parker's legal armor, had been accomplished.
Time to disabuse him of that notion.
"I did, however, arrange for replacement counsel," I said, and turned towards the door. Right on cue, it opened.
And Sam Lieberman walked into the conference room.
Norman didn't have any particular reaction to seeing one of the most dangerous litigators in the entire country walk into the room. His entourage, on the other hand?
I bore witness to a full dozen grown men go pale in unison, eyes bugging out and jaws dropping.
Mine and Sam's mirrored grins were positively feral.
"Norman Osborn!" Sam reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick wad of papers. He slammed them down on the desk in front of Osborn. "Congratulations. You've been served."
Norman's jaw dropped, confusion and disbelief warring on his face. Babbage turned towards me, just as confused, but equally angry.
"I did say that I could no longer represent Mr. Parker due to an irreconcilable conflict of interest," I said, raising one eyebrow. "That is because I, alongside a fair few other plaintiffs, am filing suit against Norman Osborn and Oscorp. I have retained Sam Lieberman here as my legal counsel, and the other parties elected to have him handle service of involved parties." I looked to Babbage. "Both Oscorp and Norman himself are named as separate entities, so…"
"Jason Babbage!" Sam said, his voice positively gleeful as he pulled out yet another set of the same stack of papers, and slammed them down in front of Babbage. "You have been served."
"W-wait!" Babbage said, recovering before any of the other lawyers Osborn had brought. "On what grounds?"
"Uncompetitive practices, corporate espionage, and a few other things I don't feel like mentioning right now," Sam said with a dismissive wave. "You have eyes. You can read."
"I'm sorry," Norman said. He leaned forward in his seat, elbows on the table, hands in the air and palms facing up. A more classic 'oh no, I'm innocent and confused' pose, I had never seen… not that it fooled anyone here. "Uncompetitive practices? Espionage?" Norman's face still held an easygoing smile. But it failed to reach his eyes.
And I could see the skin tightening around them.
"I don't know what kind of fantasy you've concocted here," he said, lips peeling back to bare his teeth. "But if you think I'm going to take this lying down—"
The door to the conference room opened again, cutting Norman off at the knees as yet another party made themselves known.
This time, it was Cate Caine, along with a cadre of two fellow FBI agents, all three of them with pistols and badges proudly displayed on their hips.
"Are you Norman Osborn, CEO of Oscorp, and Jason Babbage, General Counsel for Oscorp?"
"You know damn well who I am," Norman snarled, rising from his seat. "What is the meaning of this?"
"FBI Special Agent in Charge Catherine Caine," Cate said, pulling her badge out and displaying it. "You are both wanted for questioning regarding allegations of corporate espionage, market manipulation, and more. As we speak, my agents are executing search warrants at Oscorp's main building. While I understand you both are a little busy at the moment," Cate flashed a smile in mine and Sam's direction, "you are both expected to present yourselves for questioning upon request. Failure to comply will result in additional penalties, both in the forms of fines and jail time. Do you understand what I have told you?"
"I understand," Osborn ground out through gritted teeth.
"Yes," Jason Babbage said, standing up. A motion of his hand had the other eleven lawyers Norman brought with him all standing up. "Mr. Osborn, due to new and developing circumstances, Oscorp's legal counsel cannot represent both you and the corporation as separate entities in these proceedings. You are advised to find and retain outside counsel, and to cease all communication with Oscorp's in-house counsel until such time as you have secured representation for yourself."
"What!?" Norman snarled. He rounded on Babbage, who took two quick steps back. "You spineless, little—"
"I was brought on to represent the interests of Oscorp first," Babbage said. "Mr. Lieberman, Agent Caine, if we may step outside for a brief initial discussion before I return to the office?"
"Of course," Cate said. Sam, for his part, merely nodded.
All of this happened quickly enough that Osborn didn't really have a chance to react, beyond simply watching in dumbfounded disbelief as the majority of the bodies in the room spilled out. The clamor of over a dozen pairs of feet faded as they all left, and Sam Lieberman gave me a wink and a nod before closing the door.
Not all that long ago, I had told Ben Parker that he must never allow himself to be alone in a room with Norman Osborn. But that was exactly what had happened.
Ben Parker and I sat on one side of the table. Norman Osborn stood across from us, his poleaxed expression dissolving into a hideous, snarling beast.
"Normally, speaking to one party without counsel present would see me sanctioned," I mused out loud, giving Norman pause. "However, since I am no longer representing Mr. Parker, that issue goes out the window. Indeed, it's actually preferable that parties meet without attorneys present to try and resolve disputes without any intervention from the courts.
"To that end, Mr. Osborn." I laced my fingers on the table in front of me. "It seems that you will be a very busy man in the near future. At least half a dozen plaintiffs, each with their own offices of general counsel and chief legal officers to hound you. Not having a lawyer of your own armed and ready to go. Facing a criminal investigation; my, my. It doesn't very much look like you have the time to pursue a claim against poor Mr. Parker, now does it? And indeed," I said with a grin, "one that you yourself admitted wasn't at all about the money."
"You little bitch," Osborn said with a grimace, his fists white-knuckled on the table. He turned towards Ben Parker with a glare. "You win, Parker. Now get out."
"Thank you, Norman," Ben said with more grace than I expected him to in this situation, a serene smile on his face. "For doing the right thing." He looked at me, a question in his eyes. I merely gave him a smile and a nod.
With that, Ben Parker gathered his things, stood up, and left the room.
Leaving me alone with Norman Osborn.
"Well, well, well…"
Norman's glare was downright predatory. He less leaned over the table than hunched, as if ready to pounce on top of me at any moment.
"It's just you and me, little girl. Just us, all, alone."
Being this close to him had my skin crawling, and were it not for a few other factors in play, I knew I would be so terrified I couldn't speak. Hell, I was still scared, very much so. But I had a part to play in this.
And a good actress never forgets her lines.
"You seem to be operating under a misconception, Mr. Osborn," I said, keeping my voice neutral, and my face placid.
"Oh?" Norman stood up from his chair, hands flat on the table, the sneer on his face growing by the second. "And what is that?"
I smiled, and raised one hand.
"Simple. You are not the most dangerous person in this room."
I snapped my fingers.
And six lengths of braided steel cord flew out from underneath the table, twining around Norman Osborn's limbs, torso, and mouth. They rushed forward with such force that they carried him back into the chair he'd stood up from, which sat in place despite the momentum Norman landed with. Then, once the cords had wrapped themselves around Norman and his seat, the mahogany chair lifted five feet into the air and flipped upside down.
And finally, Magneto emerged from where he'd hidden behind the privacy screen fifteen minutes before Ben Parker and I ever entered the room.
"You really should have just left well enough alone," I said, standing up from my chair and stalking forward. The click of my heels on the floor was enough to drown out Norman's strained muttering, his augmented strength nowhere near enough to speak through a solid steel gag. "But no. You had to keep pushing. And now, you reap what you sow."
I stepped up to Norman, and gave a delicate tap to the side of the chair he sat in. Magneto, ever the gracious helper, set him to gently spinning.
"From here on out, the Green Goblin is dead," I told him, and couldn't suppress the wicked delight I felt when his eyes widened, then narrowed. "He died when he impacted the Sorcerer Supreme's defenses. And really, it's for the best. You're about to be embroiled in multiple investigations. Norman Osborn being unaccounted for only when the Green Goblin is out and about? My oh my, I wonder how long it'll take for them to put that together."
Norman's red-faced spitting and sputtering didn't get past the gag. Thankfully for both of us, his spittle didn't either.
"And more importantly, Norman?" I put a finger on the arm of the floating chair and Magneto obliged, stopping it in place for me. "None of your little games. You are to be a good little boy, and leave well enough alone. You will not so much as think of doing anything that would harm Harry, Peter, Ben, myself, or anyone else even tangentially connected to us."
I leaned in close, my lips right next to his ear.
"If anything happens to us," I whispered to him. "If any of us so much as chip a nail, and there is even the slightest inkling that you had something to do with it? You will die." Norman froze. "Oh, it won't necessarily be immediate. But at any moment, any time, any day. In the space between blinks, your body will be dead.
"And in the scant few seconds it takes your brain to recognize what has happened, I want you to remember that it was all. Your. Fault. Nod if you understand me."
Norman's eyes went wide, and he nodded so furiously that had his chair not been held fast, it would have been rocking up a storm.
My smile didn't reach my eyes.
I stepped away from Norman, walked back to my side of the table, and took up position next to Magneto. Then, I snapped my fingers.
The bindings holding Norman Osborn to the chair fell away, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap. He stumbled to his feet as quickly as he could, swaying and staggering as he tried to reacclimate to being upright.
"Oh, and Norman?" I said, smiling sweetly. "You speak a word of this to anyone, and that promise will be made good on. Understood?"
Norman simply stared at me, pupils narrowed down to a pinprick, teeth grinding so hard I could hear it.
Then he staggered out of the room, not even bothering to see if the door closed behind him.
I counted to five seconds, then ten, then fifteen. Finally, when I could no longer hear any sign that somebody was coming in, I let out an exhale, walked the three shaky steps over to my chair, and slumped down in it. Erik floated back behind the curtain as I closed my eyes and collected myself, taking deep breaths, holding, and exhaling until I felt like my heart wasn't going to beat out of my chest.
"I am never, ever, doing that again," I told Erik as he walked out from behind the screen, his other half safely hidden away in a small suitcase. "Holy shit. Holy shit."
"You played your part magnificently, my dear." Erik put a hand on my shoulder, and I grabbed onto him, focusing on my breathing to try and calm the shakes. I could feel the adrenaline crash, that sudden exhaustion where you just felt tired, and shaky, and cold.
Right now, I wanted nothing more than to just curl up on the sofa with a hot mug of tea.
"Thank you again for helping, Erik," I told him. "I'm sorry to keep imposing on you."
"Nonsense, my dear." Erik favored me with a smile, and then helped me to my feet. "Now, go. Celebrate. Perhaps it is not the victory you were after, but it is the one you have received. And it shall be all the sweeter for it."
Before Erik could protest, I swooped in for a hug. It was a careful one, otherwise I would have broken my glamour. But a hug was a hug.
"Just wait five minutes and the coast should be clear, okay?" I told him as I pulled back from the hug. Erik gave me a nod, and hid back behind the screen.
I took a few more minutes to collect myself, put my game face back on. Then I exited the conference room, walked back out to the lobby, and met up with Ben, Sam, and Cate. Neither Osborn nor what was formerly his personal legal team was anywhere in sight.
"Everything handled?" Sam asked, and I met him with a smile and a nod.
"The suit against Ben Parker should be dropped within the day. Congratulations on your fastest successful case," I told Sam. "You were Ben's lawyer for what, fifteen minutes? Twenty?"
"Since Monday, technically," Sam said, buffing his nails on his lapel. "I'm good, but I'm no Perry Mason!"
All of us shared a good laugh at that one.
"Is it safe for you to go back to your place?" Cate asked.
"Yes," I told her.
"Okay good," she said with a conspiratorial grin. "Now I'm back to only having the cats poking holes in my bedding and cushions!"
I crossed my arms and leveled a stare at Cate, even as both Sam and Ben laughed.
"Well, there goes that cashmere sweater I was going to get you for Christmas," I deadpanned.
Cate mock-gasped. Sam and Ben both just laughed harder.
Sunday, June 31, 1990
I wasn't normally one for celebrating with the client after a case finished. Oh, there were certainly exceptions – Jacques Canter and the copious quantity of top-shelf wine, champagne, and liquor we treated anyone and everyone to certainly came to mind. But that was very much the exception, as opposed to the rule.
Today, though, was another one of those exceptions, I thought to myself as I sat on the back patio of the Parker house on Ingram Street. It wasn't often that I became so personally involved in a case, much less without my consent.
And I also sincerely hoped that this was the last time any of my cases ended in a similar manner.
"How do you like your steak?" Ben asked, tongs in hand.
"If I ever say something other than medium rare, it's an imposter," I said.
I'd gone to my butcher and told him to pick out the three best steaks he had, and that cost wasn't an object. He asked if it was cause for celebration, and when I said it was, he tried to not charge me.
So when he handed me the steaks, I shoved two hundred-dollar bills into his tip jar and left before he could stop me.
"Same," Peter said, not looking up from the chunky GameBoy playing the eminently recognizable sound of Tetris.
Peter initially turned up his nose when he realized I brought kosher meat, but quickly changed his tune when he saw the ribeyes. I didn't blame him, really; kosher meat had a bit of a bad reputation, mostly born of half-assed koshering that only cared about satisfying the requirements, but not preserving flavor.
This was why you didn't buy kosher meat in a grocery store, unless it was, like, chicken for stock or soup. If you were planning to cook the meat for a proper meat dish, you went to a butcher.
"Ah, how much did this cost, by the by?" Ben asked.
"Gratis," I said with a wave, fudging the truth a bit. "When you've been going to the same butcher for over a decade and tell them it's time to celebrate, they get a bit generous."
"Tell me about it," Ben said with a smile. "That's my local dry cleaner's. Every time my birthday or Christmas rolls around, they try not to charge me. I just leave it in the tip jar," he finished with a shrug.
I merely gave him a conspiratorial grin and a meaningful look at the grill. He chuckled.
"Having fun there, Peter?" I asked.
"Trying to beat Harry's high score," he said, still focused intently on the screen. Thankfully the sun was still in the process of setting, so he had plenty of light to see it by. "It's his GameBoy, actually. He just beat all the games he has for it, so he's seeing if I can beat his scores before trying again."
"Fair enough." I sat back in the chair and looked over towards the city, eyeing the skyline. The World Trade Center dominated, but if you looked just right, you could spot both the Stark Industries and Baxter Buildings through the gap between them. Oscorp's own skyscraper was hidden behind the first tower, and just wasn't worth looking at.
Yesterday, the Bugle broke the news that it had a scoop, and that the great John Jonah Jameson himself was doing the sleuthing on this one. The news cycle was abuzz with rumors of what it could be… for all of twenty minutes before another supervillain attack happened, and the Fantastic Four filed out of the Baxter Building to handle the cosmic calamity du jour.
Speaking of… huh, that was Johnny Storm flying out of the Baxter Building.
"You see that?" I asked Peter, knowing his eyesight was better than mine.
"Huh?" Peter looked up and towards the Manhattan skyline, eyes fixed on where the Human Torch was burning a path towards Uptown. Harlem, maybe? Hell's Kitchen? "Oh, it's just Johnny. Wonder what he's doing right now."
"Just Johnny, huh?" Ben asked, a teasing tone in his voice. "Anything I need to know?"
"Eh…" Peter waved a hand. "Challenged Spidey to a race from the Brooklyn Bridge to Central Park, then sandbagged. I got a picture of Spidey halfway through the Bugle before Johnny showed up." He shrugged. "Jameson didn't run it."
"Shame," I said. "You still have the negative? I'll pay you for a print."
"Oh, sure!" Peter said. "Uh… hey Uncle Ben, how much should I charge for that?"
"How much does the Bugle pay for a front page marquee?" Ben asked. "I'd say the same amount."
"That'll do," I added before Peter could protest. "Guess you need to find a darkroom, then."
"I'll just use the one at Midtown Prep," Peter said. "It's open to students over the summer."
"Speaking of the summer," I said, taking the segue while it was there. "Any plans? You're going into your senior year, right? Maybe think about visiting some college campuses, decide where you want to apply?" I leaned in conspiratorially. "Might I suggest my own alma mater, NYU?"
"I, uh, I don't know," Peter said, looking a bit unsure. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ben frown a bit as he flipped the steaks. "I was gonna apply for Columbia, but it's so expensive, you know? I mean, I'm probably gonna have to only go part-time and pay my way with work at the Bugle, and I don't know if I can even afford that. Plus, still gotta keep the neighborhood friendly, you know?" he asked.
"... Peter, when do you turn eighteen?" I asked.
"Uh, August 27?" Peter half-asked, half-said. "Why? Is it important?"
I nodded.
"When you turn eighteen, talk to JJ. He told me a little while back that while he's only legally allowed to give you so much for your photos because you're underage, they are worth a lot more than just that," I told him. "He's had your full earnings deposited into a trust for when you come of age."
"Full earnings?" Ben asked, turning to me. "Noa, how much are we talking? A few thousand? Ten, fifteen grand?"
"Ben, your nephew essentially has a monopoly on the copyright for photographs of Spider-Man," I said. "Any time a newspaper, magazine, or TV station ran a picture of Spider-Man, they had to pay both Peter and the Bugle for the rights to the picture. Given how Spidey is more popular among younger audiences than the Four or the Avengers?"
I frowned, running some mental math in my head.
"I think you'll have more than enough to afford full tuition and a studio apartment near campus. Before any merit scholarships," I added. "And if you think for even half a second that you won't be getting any merit scholarships, I have a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn."
I glanced up at Ben, who looked a little stunned.
Then I turned to see Peter, who had completely forgotten the GameBoy in his hands, let the screen fill up, and got a Game Over.
"... Ben, you may want to check on the steaks," I said, snapping him out of his reverie. Ben hustled over to the grill and pulled the steaks off.
Peter, meanwhile, was still in la la land. Not even snapping my fingers in front of his face was enough to pull him back down to earth. But you know what? I didn't blame him.
I had more or less the same reaction when that one verdict got read out. There was no pulling him back until we had food to put in front of him, and the steaks needed to rest.
So instead,I leaned back in my chair and looked back over the city, and watched as Johnny Storm flew after what looked for all the world like a shooting star.
And so ends the third arc of this fic.
There is one more chapter in what I will call the first "volume", as it were. The first major set of arcs.
That chapter will be out in the next few days, but then there will be no more updates until at the earliest mid-February.
Again, if you enjoyed what you read and feel like leaving a tip, my Ko-Fi can be found [HERE].
And now... toodles!
There is one more chapter in what I will call the first "volume", as it were. The first major set of arcs.
That chapter will be out in the next few days, but then there will be no more updates until at the earliest mid-February.
The FFXIV Race to World First will be well underway, and my team is competing.
If you're a fellow Warrior of Light, please cheer for Team HoM and the HoMies.
I don't think we're gonna take home the win, but somewhere between top 5 and top 20 is eminently doable with our roster.
If you're a fellow Warrior of Light, please cheer for Team HoM and the HoMies.
I don't think we're gonna take home the win, but somewhere between top 5 and top 20 is eminently doable with our roster.
Again, if you enjoyed what you read and feel like leaving a tip, my Ko-Fi can be found [HERE].
And now... toodles!
Blinktwice13
Underpaid Struggle Bus Attendant
- Location
- Eastern US
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This was everything I could have wanted in a finale to this arc, and it delivered.
Bravo!
OsCorp getting torpedoed from all directions? Magneto wrecking Gobbie's shit? Locking him out of reprisal towards the protagonist?
Norman, I give you your new mantra: Cope, Seethe, Mald.
Bravo!
OsCorp getting torpedoed from all directions? Magneto wrecking Gobbie's shit? Locking him out of reprisal towards the protagonist?
Norman, I give you your new mantra: Cope, Seethe, Mald.
- Location
- Oregon, USA
Bets on what the 'shooting star' is?
Smells like Chekov to me.
Smells like Chekov to me.
- Location
- The deathworld-in-miniature that is Australia
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Surfer? Wonder if this is when he's still working for Galactus? Noa might not be the only one splurging on a meal...
- Location
- Leeds
MacDonald Gargan (Earth-616)
Looked it up since thats such a stupid name, stick to alliteration Marvel
Got musicals on the mind?
Norman Osborns no good very bad day continues.