"Would you like me to hit him so he turns purple with spots?"
From the animated film 'The Mystery of the Third Planet.'
*********************************
Walter Mayer, the Nazgûl.
The little hobgoblin had plenty of swagger, but he was a hopeless fighter. Several shots did reach me, though by then they could no longer affect the overall result. I spent some time deciding what to do with him. Killing him was too ordinary and would not satisfy my thirst for revenge. Hm. He loved frightening people so much...
Let us try something. I approached and seized the freak. The Symbiote began entering his body. Not the most pleasant sensation, I assure you. Now we would play. A horse-sized dose of corticotropin—the fear hormone—entered the prisoner's blood. I had not expected my biology lessons to become useful so quickly. It still seemed insufficient. I wanted to make him fear even a rustle.
Guided by some incomprehensible instinct, I roared directly into his face. The Symbiote detected interesting changes in the subject's brain activity. The bastard soiled himself and began pleading. Then his eyes glazed over. He collapsed onto the roof and started muttering something about demons from the Darkness.
Leaving the thoroughly deranged Hobgoblin behind, I examined his equipment. The grenades and other weapons impressed me little. They were useless to me and would only attract unwanted attention. The Hobgoblin's costume and flying platform were more interesting. The clothing possessed a complex structure. Out of curiosity, I tried to tear the fabric. It required some effort even with Venom's strength. A durable material.
I studied its structure as a possible upgrade for my armor. I could not determine the full composition on the spot, so I took a piece for laboratory analysis. The incident with the phone had demonstrated vividly that additional protection was never unnecessary—provided it did not reduce mobility. After finishing with the costume, I turned to the flying tray.
What could one say about this miracle of engineering? Hm. If I excluded profanity, I preferred to remain silent. I could not understand how the thing lifted itself. Surely it did not use antigravity. And what powered its flight? They could not possibly have placed a reactor inside it. Yet I found no fuel tank. Nothing else proved useful, so I hurried away. A van carrying several uniformed men was already approaching the building.
The next day, every channel and newspaper exploded with the story.
I had not known Professor Tolkien's work existed in this world too, though the book had never achieved the same popularity and therefore no film had been made. The headline 'Nazgûl Saves Students from Hobgoblin' sent me into hysterical laughter and produced an intense sense that reality had stopped being real. The reports did not mention the condition in which the terrorist had reached prison.
Hm. Stranger and stranger.
Given journalists' love of pouring filth over every 'hero'—poor Peter, who delivered his own photographs to them—failing to report that the Hobgoblin had gone mad with fear seemed suspicious. Someone was filtering the information carefully. Who, and why?
The answer soon became clear.
One broadcast read a statement of gratitude to the Nazgûl from Mr. Fisk. They even invited me to collect the reward. No. Interest in my modest person from the Kingpin himself was something I disliked absolutely. I would have to keep my head down and perform no more heroic deeds.
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A little earlier. The Kingpin.
Fisk's day had been difficult. The most influential people in the 'shadow' world expressed confusion and growing dissatisfaction with events that had recently occurred too often inside the Kingpin's territory. 'The jackals smell blood,' the giant thought grimly. But they would not take him so easily.
Fisk frowned. A black streak had entered his life: Spider-Man's interference, which had already cost him considerable blood; the assassination attempt using a costumed freak. Yes. He should remember to throw a bone to that photographer—Parker, apparently. Maintaining the image of a generous citizen was important.
And now, to complete the picture, someone called the Nazgûl appeared, destroyed what remained of the Hobgoblin's mind, and vanished without a trace. Judging by his methods, he did not suffer from excessive mercy. Could the Nazgûl perhaps solve Fisk's small spider problem?
First, however, he had to be found. Fisk smiled. An interesting Game would soon begin in this city.
"Joseph, deliver the freak to prison and make certain no one discusses his condition. For the journalists, the Nazgûl neutralized him. That's sufficient. And issue a public statement thanking our new 'hero' in my name."
"Yes, sir."
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Walter Mayer.
The hysteria surrounding hobgoblin — now a terminal madman—gradually subsided. Life returned to its familiar gray routine.
Yes, certainly. The semester began. I had to attend classes, listen to lectures, and assist Curt during laboratory work. It was amusing to grade Felicia's exercise. Peaceful life still failed to arrive. Within a single week, four events of considerable interest—at least to me—occurred.
Let us consider them in order.
Only a day after classes began, Spider-Man himself visited the laboratory in all his red-and-blue glory. I was washing test tubes after analyzing the piece of 'goblin hide.' Incidentally, it had proved to be a sophisticated polymer structurally similar to good old Kevlar.
"Um. Hello," I greeted him with slight uncertainty.
Do not laugh. I said do not laugh.
"Hello," Spider-Man answered.
An awkward silence followed. Connors rescued the situation by entering at the perfect moment. Had he been listening outside the door?
"Walter, have you finished your research? I need—"
Then he noticed Parker sitting on the ceiling. Parker noticed Doc's full set of limbs. Another awkward pause. Curt recovered first.
"Spider-Man, I'm glad to see you. You haven't visited for some time."
The professor was genuinely happy to see his friend.
"Unfortunately, business. You know—help an old lady cross the street, prevent a bank robbery..."
Peter supported the conversation, then asked directly,
"Doctor, how did you restore your arm?"
"Oh, that is Walter's achievement."
A dramatic pause.
"The boy is a rising star in neogenics and favors unconventional methods."
He had not spoken a single lie. My teachings.
"Ah. I shouldn't have said that. Now he'll become conceited and completely unbearable," Connors concluded.
"With you as a teacher, anyone would," I muttered quietly, though Curt's praise pleased me.
Doc chuckled.
"Come to think of it, you haven't been introduced. Spider-Man, this is Walter Mayer—my assistant and good friend. Walter, this is Spider-Man, the city's hero and someone who once helped me enormously."
We shook hands.
"What brings you here, my friend? You rarely drop in merely for coffee," Curt asked, moving to business.
"Professor, I need your help. I learned from a certain... source that something is happening to my organism. Could you examine me?"
The familiar light of the mad scientist began burning in Connors's eyes. I swallowed, already predicting the answer. My intuition did not fail.
"We need tests. Come along."
For several consecutive hours, we dragged Parker through every instrument available. I even felt nostalgic, remembering how only two months earlier our Mengele had sent me through the same machinery. Doc confirmed my diagnosis. Spider-Man continued mutating, gradually turning into an unknown creature. Worse, his spider abilities might soon begin disappearing.
Curt promised to help, but solving the problem could require a great deal of time. Time Parker did not possess. After Peter left, Connors turned to me.
"You knew?"
"Yes. I was the 'source,'" I answered thoughtfully.
"Can you help him?"
Hope sounded in Doc's voice. Forgive me, Curt, but this was necessary.
"I don't know. I'm not sure. Attaching an arm and changing and stabilizing an entire genome are very different levels."
I added uncertainty to my voice.
"During a Bonding—perhaps. But I don't know whether Spider-Man would agree. And I don't know whether I could separate us afterward, even with the 'bells.'"
The professor promised to think. Perhaps he would produce something useful.
The second significant event was dinner with Felicia.
The young woman understood good places. The inexpensive but extremely comfortable restaurant, with its pleasant music, was almost entirely ours. Most dishes involved fish. Hm. I was beginning to understand why she would choose a feline alias; something distinctly catlike existed in her. The food was excellent.
Felicia asked about my injuries and my work with Connors while gradually suggesting that I might help her study. As though I objected. At the end of the evening, I accompanied her home. At her door, I embraced her. Our eyes met. Then came our first kiss.
Felicia kissed extremely well. Practice on her former boyfriends had evidently produced results. A quiet desire appeared to bury those former boyfriends somewhere discreet.
I did not hurry farther. For a first date, the result was already excellent. Fine. I was making excuses. We were interrupted at the most interesting moment.
"Ahem."
Mrs. Hardy stood in the doorway and studied us with interest.
"Um... hello."
Where was my wit when I needed it? Perhaps I should ask Parker for lessons. No. His only activated when circumstances became catastrophic.
"Hello, Walter. How are you feeling?" Felicia's mother asked warmly.
"Thank you. Everything is fine now," I answered automatically.
"I see you brought Felicia home. Well done. Darling, when you're finished, come inside. We need to discuss a few things."
She winked at us and withdrew into the apartment.
"I think she likes you," Felicia said thoughtfully. "That hasn't happened before."
"Oh? Then do you agree to go out with me, Miss Hardy?"
I gave her an interested look.
"I'll consider your proposal, Mr. Mayer... I've considered it, and I'm inclined to accept," she said with a smile.
What else could be said? We separated only ten minutes later, and then solely because suspicious rustling sounded behind the door. I returned home perfectly happy. The happiness lasted two entire days. Then, in an ultimatum, I was dragged to another reception.
Gods, what boredom.
A crowd of local society figures and various artists. But what could I do? I now had to accompany Felicia to every such gathering. Not that I complained. But meeting assorted 'creators' whose 'masterpieces' resembled the smearing of a five-year-old epileptic idiot... No. I categorically failed to understand modern art.
The entertainment began when a man of approximately thirty-five passed me. Judging by his appearance, he was an ordinary technician. It was peculiar that he had ignored the service corridors and crossed the banquet hall instead. Something about him felt wrong. Oh? Parker was present too, and he was also watching the man.
Something was definitely wrong.
I moved closer and 'accidentally' collided with the technician, scratching him with one of the cuff links on my tailcoat. Another questionable outfit, but for some reason they refused admission to formal receptions in cloaks.
What did we have here? I listened to my senses and froze in amazement. The technician possessed an extremely interesting genetic structure. His cells could change pigmentation and also contract or expand, though they required some external stimulus. At least, I discovered no natural mechanism controlling those alterations. Canon contained only one person capable of similar tricks.
The Chameleon.
That meant the one-eyed director of S.H.I.E.L.D. ought to be nearby. Getting my hands on his database would be highly useful, but first I had to find him. I wandered through the hall for another half hour before seeing the person I needed. The individual was tall and powerfully built, with a very kind and understanding gaze. The sort of man to whom one wanted to confess everything before he began asking questions, thereby avoiding severe bodily injury.
He did indeed wear an eye patch. I needed to lure him somewhere no one could observe us. The restroom should work. A plan began forming. I separated a small piece of myself. A waiter was approaching and clearly moving toward my target. I planted the fragment on him while taking an appetizer from his tray. Then I instructed the piece to jump from the waiter to the man I needed when they passed close to each other.
Contact.
The rest was simple. I penetrated the man's organism quickly through the fragment and triggered a mild stomach cramp, while walking toward the restroom myself. The trick worked. The colonel—I believed that was his rank—headed in the same direction. While he approached, I checked the room. Empty. I waited inside the nearest stall.
He entered.
Excellent. I ordered my fragment to disable the host and caught the falling body. Time was precious. At maximum speed, I transferred more of my cells into him. Almost one third of myself. I could manage no more. Then I left the unconscious colonel standing upright. With that much Symbiote inside him, I could have forced him to dance the lezginka while unconscious. I entered the stall and locked the door behind me. Now we switched the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. back on.
Excellent.
At most, he noticed mild dizziness and momentary disorientation. The operation had lasted less than half a minute. I had reason to be proud. Leaving Parker and company to deal with the Chameleon, I returned to the guests.
Within a week, my separated portion should search Fury's mind very thoroughly. I hoped it contained something interesting.
The fourth and final event occurred approximately a week after the beginning of classes.
Michael Morbius transferred to our university. A gloomy man in an expensive black coat, with long black hair. The first thing he did was approach Felicia—almost using my own method. He bowed gallantly and kissed her hand.
Grrrr.
This appeared to be war. Whispers spread among the students.
"Now there are two of them."
"Wow. Looks like we're going to have a vampire convention."
"Keep your voice down. If he hears you, you'll never pass the lab."
I smirked at the last comment. Felicia seemed merely amused by the situation. Or perhaps she wanted to make me jealous.
"Oh, another gallant gentleman. Apparently Europe still has knights. And hello, Walter. You approached so quietly."
Two gloomy men in leather coats stared at each other. The air seemed to grow several degrees colder, and even the birds became silent.
I drilled my opponent with a heavy gaze.
He answered in kind.
It was war.