Instead of hiding in a shell
Why make your life a living hell?
Drink the toast! Down the cup!
Drink to bones that turn to dust!
'Cuz no one, no one, no one, no one
No one, no one, no one, no one
No one, no one, no one, no one
No one lives forever!!
~ Oingo Boingo, "No One Lives Forever"

Phones rang and buzzed, copiers beeped, people shouted, and printers hummed through the halls of Oscorp's main building. Down a few halls, laboratory assistants scuffled from door to door, their hands filled with trays of precious chemicals. Still others tucked schematics in rolled tubes beneath their arms, struggling not to bump into the temporary help who balanced clipboards, boxes, and cups of coffee and tea.

As Harry Osborn slowly made his way through the labyrinth, he began to wonder how his father had ever been able to make sense of it all. Biting his lower lip with a frown, he sought out the building's directory and began to search for his late father's office. There it was, twelfth floor, right on the end. Harry nodded to himself - more to psych himself up for the endeavor more than anything else - and stepped towards the elevator.

Harry didn't have many good memories of the halls at Oscorp. As a child, he'd been left there to play with the employees' other brood while his father worked. More often than not, he ended up being ostracized due to his parentage - either the others feared him or were too blinded by their jealousy to recognize him as just a fellow child. Any other time, he'd wander off by himself through the long, winding corridors and get himself lost, sitting huddled in a corner until some poor employee took pity on Mr. Osborn's Son and whisked him off to childcare again - never his father's office, which was what he was usually trying to find in the first place.

Now, it seemed, he was finally going to find it on his own.

The elevator slowed its ascent and deposited him on the twelfth floor with a slight lurch. Harry took in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Why are you letting this place intimidate you? You're an Osborn. This, by blood, is your turf. They should look up to you, right? Go on in. As the doors slid open, Harry strode out down the hall, past the countless conference room and office doors until he reached the one that he was looking for. He reached a hand into his pocket for the key that the lawyer had given him, and put it to the lock, only to find that the door swung open with the slight pressure. More out of reflex than anything else, Harry blinked.

".....Dad .....?"

The office chair on the opposite side of the massive desk swiveled around, revealing younger man with reddish blonde hair - a man who didn't look like he had more than five years on Harry himself. He scowled. Then, to Harry's relief, the expression began to change - though the relief was short lived, because what suddenly became reflected on the man's face was not something of welcome... moreover, something of utter pity.

"Oh," he said quietly. "You must be Norman's Son...."

Harry flinched. "Yes, sir. I came to get my father's belongings. I was under the impression that this office would be empty."

The pity turned into something even more offensive - the look that adults give children who "just don't seem to get it", tiny age difference aside. The man folded his hands over the desk, shaking his head. "Look, kid, this hasn't been Norman Osborn's office for months now." He gestured to the gold nameplate on the desk, which clearly read David Fargas, Jr. "He left the company a while ago. Or ... didn't you know?"

You know all too well that I didn't know, Harry scowled, looking around with an air of infuriated helplessness. "....Well, I was supposed to pick up my father's belongings.... Where the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"You watch your tone, Osborn. ... It's good to hear you're not completely your father's son, though - you've got backbone."

Backbone?

"Now g'wan, get outta here. I got things to do."

Harry made his way back out into the hallway numbly, closing the door behind him. "Backbone," he whispered. "....Dad, what the hell was that supposed to mean ..?" Not only that, but ...

"HEY!" A voice hailed him merrily from the elevator. "Harry Osborn?"

His head snapped upwards. He'd only heard the voice once, but that had been enough to tack it to the face - and moreover, the body. ".... Miss Jamirez," he called out, suppressing the urge to run down the hallway. "What're you doing here?"

"Oh," Penelope smiled, tucking the file folders under her arm close to her chest so that she could obscure the Oscorp logo printed on their edges, "just running some errands for Mr. Denver. He wanted me to get some numbers for suppliers and reps from the lab people here. Friendly business competition inquiries and all that." She gifted him with a wink, then reached out and touched his shoulder. "So how have you been doing? .... Since the funeral last week, I mean. Have things been ... "

"They've been pretty hard," Harry admitted. "I mean, it'd be tough enough if I'd really known my dad. But ... I've been thinking about it, and I really didn't. I was looking at the letter that Mr. Denver sent me - it seems he knew Dad more than I did .... a hell of a lot more."

"Well," Penelope managed not to smile, "he would have. No offense. But the two were business buddies for nearly their entire careers."

"And God knows Dad cared more about business than he did about me."

"I'll tell you what." Penelope smiled, patting Harry on the shoulder. "Since I'm Mr. Denver's public liason, why don't we make a deal. Anything you want to talk about, you can talk about to me."

Harry managed a lopsided grin. "Okay ... sure." He paused, then his grin widened. "Say, Miss Jamirez?"

"Yeeees?"

"... You ah, wouldn't happen to know anyone who'd be interested in renting a house, would you? Cuz, see, the property ... "

"I understand," she nodded, cutting him off. "Know just how you feel. I might know a couple people. Right now, though ... I've gotta go."

".... Okay," he nodded, amazed that she'd known what was on his mind. "Take care..."

"And remember," she called over her shoulder as she sashayed down the hall, "anything you need, you know where to drop a line!"

"Right....!" Harry sighed, stepping back into the elevator and jabbing at the button that would take him back to the lobby. ....She's cool. .... I wonder if I'll ever get to meet Mr.Denver. He's already exchanged a letter with me... seems pretty nice. Knew a lot about Dad. .... Looking around the elevator, Harry's eyes settled on the Oscorp logo imprinted on the wall, then narrowed. Apparently, to these guys, I'm still Norman Osborn's Son. That guy felt SORRY for me ... I've been felt sorry for for my whole life. It's pretty disgusting. .... Well, I'm obviously not Norman Osborn's Son anymore.... I'm Harry. And I'd better make what I can of it.

"This pie your Aunt May sent over is great, Peter," Mary Jane gushed, swiping at her mouth with a napkin. "You've got to tell her to take it easy on the baked goods, or nobody's going to want me when I audition."

"You look great," Peter shook his head, handing her a glass of milk. "Now, come on, let's run over your lines..."

"I've done that, over and over."

"Then what's got you so worried? You sound like you've got them down cold." He slid into the chair across from her and helped himself to a slice of the blueberry pie.

"I'm not worried..."

"You keep twisting your hair on your finger," he pointed out with a grin. "You always used to do that before tests in chemistry."

"....You .... noticed that," she blinked, stunned.

"Well ... yeah." He rubbed at the back of his neck with a small chuckle.

Mary Jane frowned for just a moment, then took a sip of her milk. "It's this new casting agency. I've never tried out for them before, and they say they want publicity photos. I guess my senior yearbook picture doesn't cut it anymore."

"Not since you got your hair cut, no," Peter agreed.

"I ... did try sending them the pictures that you took for the newspaper that time at Columbia U ... " MJ ventured nervously. "They really liked them. But they need current photos, and I was wondering if ... I hate to ask, but ..."

"You want me to take some more?" He smiled, already halfway to the chair where he'd set his camera case. "No problem!"

".... You're kidding, right? I mean, you're with the Bugle now, you get assignments and things. I didn't know if you'd have time."

"I've always got time for a friend," Peter smiled. "Do you want me to take some casuals now, or do you want to wear something special and do a shoot somewhere?"

MJ bit her lip, blushing slightly. "... Can we do both?"

"Sure!"

"You're way too nice, Peter," she smiled, getting up from the table and heading towards the couch under the window. "You're like, I dunno. My own personal hero."

"I thought that was Spider-man."

".... Well, that's different," Mary Jane admitted. "I don't really get to talk to him. ... Have you seen him lately?"

"It's been tough getting any good pictures," Peter shook his head. "Harry's been really weird about the whole thing. You want the pictures on the couch?"

"Yeah ... all E! Magazine or something."

"'Kay." He nodded as she settled in on the couch. "Move onto the other side, though, your hair catches the light more there - and it's your good side. Okay, good. ... Now, ah ... turn your head a bit." He peered through the lens of his camera critically, then frowned. "No, the other way. Not so much. Tilt it ..."

"Why not just show me, Peter ..." She rolled her eyes, grinning.

"Okay, hang on." He set the camera down, then headed over to the couch. Bending over, he placed one hand on her cheek and began to tilt her head upwards.

At that moment, the door to the apartment swung open and Harry shuffled into the apartment. "Hey, Pete, I'm .... " What remnant of a smile he'd been able to muster faded as he saw Mary Jane sitting on the sofa, his friend's hand under her chin, leaning over her. "..... Oh. .... Er .... hi, MJ."

"Harry, hey," Peter hailed him, standing up, as Mary Jane straightened her posture and got coolly to her feet. "MJ just came over cuz she wanted me to take some publicity photos for her ..."

"Uh huh." Harry nodded numbly as MJ swept the remnants of her pie into the garbage and slung her jean jacket over her shoulders.

"I'll come back later, Peter," she hailed him, breezing out the door. The awkward silence that followed seemed punctuated by her footsteps in the hallway outside.

"Pictures," Harry said finally, his eyes dark. "... Sure, Peter, what kind of idiot do you think I am ...?"

"I know what it looked like," Peter said slowly, "but I'm telling the truth."

"I thought you told her you were just going to be friends."

"I ... I did, Harry, you know that. And I meant it. Would you please just believe me?"

"I just want you to be careful, Peter," Harry replied, his voice clipped. "After all ... you heard what my father said about her."

"That wasn't true, and you know it." Peter sent his roommate a level stare. "MJ wouldn't do that to anyone."

"Wouldn't she? She's already bumming free pictures off you instead of going to pay a photographer like the rest of those wanna-bes do. And besides, I wouldn't be surprised if she ended up wanting the Titanic package... That's probably the kind of role she's trying out for ... something that needs those kinds of pictures."

"Harry," Peter scowled, hurt. "Where are you getting this from?"

"I never listened to my father while he was alive, Peter, and now I'm really regretting every minute of it. Now that he's dead... everything I can remember, I'm listening to. Including everything about ... about what a great guy you are." There was just a slight edge in Harry's voice as he turned away. "I want you to be careful, Peter. You're my friend."

"So you've said..." The photographer put his camera back in the case, then froze. The spider-sense. ... Something isn't right. But ... why now? Why Harry? ... "Is everything alright, Harry?"

"Oh, not really. I just got totally screwed over by the jerk at Oscorp who took my father's office - I don't know where any of Dad's old stuff is. Everyone's still hung up on calling me Norman Osborn's Son, and there's this really, really hot woman I met today who probably could care less what I thought about her. ... However, she does think she knows someone who'd want to rent the house."

"Hot woman, and a renter," Peter nodded. "Those are definately pluses. Next time you see her, you should try and ask her out..."

"Peter, she's probably like five years older than I am." Harry griped.

"So? ... I've heard of couples with bigger age differences."

"In the tabloids."

"Not necessarily. Go for it, Harry. I mean, what can you lose?" Peter shrugged. Please let him at least get to know this girl, whoever the hell she is. He needs it.

Harry chuckled, grabbing a plate from the cupboard. "If you say so, Peter. I mean, you are the smart one. ... Hey, pie."

"Help yourself," Peter smirked, sitting back down. "So who's this possible renter?"

Harry shook his head, muttering through a mouth of blueberry pie. "I dunno.... beats me."

The small bedroom at the end of the hall was far too bright, Norman had decided. He missed the dark, rich tones of his old room, and longed to go and at least buy some nice, dark red curtains to hang on the windows, or something. He'd drawn the shades, which helped. With the lights off, slouched on the side of his bed, he grazed his fingers through his hair and sighed.

"We're not getting anywhere... You said we'd be underway by now."

"Well, is that my fault?" Norman's gaze swung to the mirror over his dresser, and he saw the Goblin staring back at him. "You know what you have to do. You're just not doing anything about it, Osborn. Penelope's right, you are a lazy-assed bum. Freeloading off of her. I swear, Normy. I set up a lovely, nice fat trust fund for you and you haven't even touched it."

"I don't want anyone to see me."

"Send the girl! ... I think that near-death experience did something to your brain, Osborn, you're not as sharp as you usually are..."

"I don't trust her."

"Who the hell said you had to trust her? She's vital, Normy, vital. The problem last time was, you let yourself in the spotlight too much, and you were the one who took the fall. ... Let someone else be in the bright lights - stay in the shadows, where it's cool, where it's safe ... run everything from here, in the darkness."

"... Right." Somewhere in the house, a latch clicked, but Norman paid it no heed, absorbed in his conversation. "... We still don't have any investors for this, you know. You have to admit that's a problem."

"Oh, I know it's a problem. That bitch Jenner won't sell out, and we need to help her along a little, I think."

"No, not us... then Oscorp will be suspicious. We have to find a way to send someone else..."

"Good idea, and yet a stupid one, Osborn. Who the hell are you going to s --"

Both Goblin and businessman froze as they heard the sound of a footstep somewhere in the house. Norman leapt to his feet, scurrying down the hall, trying his damnedest to look calm about the possibility that he might have been eavesdropped on. However, as he reached the foot of the stairs, he nearly ran into Penelope as she hung her blazer by the door.

"Ay caramba, Osborn." She punched him on the shoulder as she stepped into the kitchen. "Watch where you're going."

So she was just coming in. Relax. ".... Right."

"Saw your son today. He wanted to know if I knew anyone who'd like to rent a house. You've got money somewhere ... and I want you out. Sound good?"

Hey Normy. About that trust fund. I've got a plan B. Norman paused, listening, then nodded. "I'll cut you a deal, then .... you need to do something for me ...."

Penelope narrowed her eyes. "I'm already your little messenger. What do you want now?"

".... I just need you to pick something up for me. Let me make you some iced coffee... you look warm." Suavely, Norman made his way into the kitchen and fixed up a tall iced coffee with the remaining liquid from that morning's coffeepot. Making sure his back was turned just right, he dug around in his pocket for the second object that had come in the FedEx box with his suit ... a tiny green phial. With a grin, he tipped a few drops into the coffee. "Cream or sugar?"

"Both...." Penelope blinked, as he set the cup in front of her. ".... Thanks."

"So, you still want in on the plan." He sat down across from her. Watch her eyes. That's the key. As if I didn't know that already.

"Well, hell yes. If it means bringing Fargas down, I'm all for it. That corporation's going to hell, I swear it is."

"That was about my assessment of it, yes," Norman agreed.

".... I've watched them pull shit on the lower employees for years," Penelope snarled suddenly, her hand curling around her coffee cup. "They give the raises to the asskissers and cut back on the ones who actually try to contribute ideas to improve the company - they want all the choices in the hands of those board members ... It's sick. And with Fargas Junior in the hotseat, it's worse."

Norman managed a nod, absorbed in the way that her irises were slowly turning a darker shade from their regular grey. "So... do you want to go to the bank and pick up a little something for Mr. Denver?"

".... If that's meant as some sort of sick pickup, I'm not buying it," she said flatly, her eyes reverting as she downed the rest of her coffee.

"Of course not. However, it would be step one in undermining Fargas and Quest."

Dark black pupils flashed as Penelope crushed the empty plastic cup in her hand. ".... Let's do it."

There are those who say that J. Jonah Jameson eats nails. There are others who say that he is a one-man hurricane. However, that morning, he was chomping on a cigar instead, and sitting in the eye of the hurricane. The afternoon edition was about to go to press - there was an advertising conflict in section D, the printers put out the weather forecast from this weekend instead of for tomorrow, there were - of all things - typos in the editorial!, his wife was calling on two lines at once about the kitchen countertop, there was a new front-page article to work on, and as if things couldn't get any crazier....

"Sir!"

Jameson had been the eye of the hurricane until that. Particular. Moment.

"WHAT THE HELL do YOU want, Parker? I'm BUSY here!"

"It's about those Spider-man pictures, sir..." Peter began.

"I don't give a rat's ass about Spider-man right now, Parker. OR the Green Goblin. Up to my ears in this Jenner news flash..."

"Jenner?" The name rung a bell vaguely, and Peter creased one eyebrow in confusion.

"You know. Rachel Jenner, that big stock magnate over at GVG Chemical. Some maniac broke into her house last night and threatened the shit out of her," Jameson said brusquely, handing him a handful of photos. "These just came in ... if you can get more like this, maybe we'll talk."

Peter rifled quickly through the photos. The stock broker's penthouse had been ransacked, windows broken and furniture thrown out of array. However, of the most note was the bedroom. What looked like flower petals had been strewn everywhere, and everything else seemed intact. "Was the perpetrator male?"

"Hell no, female," Jameson snorted. "Jenner said that she didn't see the face, just this shadowy profile type thing. Cops say she was in hysterics, but she swore it looked like a skull. And there was a note left behind once she'd had the shit scared out of her, too."

"Note?"

Jameson nodded. "Some crazy-ass poem about death and stuff. ... Go on, Parker, I can't deal with you right now, I thought I said! God dammit!"

Peter nodded, setting the photos back on the table. I think that Spider-man knows what he's doing tonight ... "I'll see you about Spiderman later, then?"

"I told you, Parker! I don't CARE, unless you've got more dirt on that Green Goblin!"

"How can I get more dirt?" Peter yelped. "He's dead!"

"SIR!" One of the copy boys burst into the office, his cap askew. ".... Sir, you might just want to cancel out Jenner from the front page."

"WHAT? What in the name of William Randolph Hearst is a better front page story than THIS?"

The copy boy shrank back a few feet, then gulped. ".... Police dispatch just came over the scanner ... They say that the Green Goblin's breaking into the impound."

"Parker ... " Jameson barked. "I want pictures. And I want them now. MOVE your ass." He looked up. "...Parker? ... God damn it."

The Goblin. Alive. ..... That's absolutely impossible, Spider-man thought, already a few blocks away from the impound. Even from that distance, though, he could hear the sirens and the explosions. I killed him, I did it myself. I wasn't exactly prepared for what ended up being behind the mask, but the fact remains that both Norman Osborn AND the Green Goblin are dead. We buried Norman a week ago. How can there be a Goblin?

Yet as a few more well-executed swings brought the webslinger around the corner, a sound issued from the impound - an unmistakable cackle.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAA! Maybe NEXT time you'll think twice before trying to give ME valet parking..."

Spider-man swooped down to the ground, managing to pull two policemen out of the way before an iron beam fell from its supports. ".... You guys ok?"

The policemen managed nods.

"How long ago did he get here?"

"Not long at all ..." One panted. "Strolled right up to the claims window and threw a bomb in there ... "

Sounds like Gobby alright ... but ... this just ... Spider-man shook his head to clear it, then pointed to the impound garage. "Where are you storing the glider?"

"... You can't go in there, it's going to fall apart!"The second officer stuttered.

"WHERE?"

".... Second level, in the back ..."

Spider-man nodded, then raced off towards the impound, aiming a string of webbing at the second level ceiling and swinging in through the gap between the railing and the roof. The impound was set up like a typical parking garage, and he made his way cautiously around the different confiscated vehicles. Suddenly, his spider-sense kicked in full force, and he turned his head, the world around him seeming to move in slow motion. A hissing sound grew steadily louder from a black Impala nearby, and he leapt away, throwing himself to the floor just as it exploded in a shower of sparks and metal. An orange sphere, its center glowing green, rolled to a stop at his feet, and he jumped up into the twisted ironwork of the ceiling before it opened, sending a cloud of dark green gas spewing out over the floor of the impound.

".... Well, well. Y'see, that's why I never liked parking garages. They're full of BUGS."

Spider-man whipped his head around, searching for the source of the voice. ".... Goblin," he said gravely, more for his own confirmation than anything else.

"Congratulations," the Goblin sassed, strolling out from behind a parked Chevy Caravan, tossing a pumpkin bomb up and down in one hand. "You win the door prize. Catch, Spidey boy."

Spider-man dropped to the floor, lashing out with his foot and deflecting the bomb back toward a girder. Upon impact, it exploded, shattering the concrete pillar and bringing a section of the ceiling slumping down around their heads. "...Well, I guess you're harder to kill than I thought, Osborn."

"Osborn?" The Goblin paused long enough to allow himself a cackle before launching himself at the hero. "News flash, Spider-man, Norman Osborn's dead."

"Then who the hell are you?" He grunted, blocking a punch.

"Wouldn't YOU like to know." The Goblin grabbed hold of Spider-man's arm, flipping him onto the ground, but the webslinger carried the momentum of the fall through, pulling the Goblin down with him and slamming him into the concrete.

"I actually don't care who you are, as long as I can kick your ass," Spider-man replied, shooting out a stream of web to bind the Green Goblin's legs. He gave a kick and ripped himself free then, jumping to his feet and heading for the back of the impound. Spiderman gave chase, shooting out another burst of webbing in a vain attempt to slow his risen adversary.

"Well, that's not going to happen anytime soon," the Green Goblin sassed, leaping on top of his Glider, nestled between a Lexus and an old VW van. "See, Spidey, my last mistake was that I stayed still long enough for you to reach me." With a purr, the Glider's engine revved to life, and the Goblin maneuvered it out of the parking garage into the open air, throwing a few more bombs in Spider-man's direction.

Dodging the flames, Spider-man expelled a web and swung out onto the side of the parking garage, gauging the distance. Damn it ... you'd think he planned it ... there's nothing really close enough for me to swing to! It's all parking ...

"Having a little trouble building your web, little spider?" The Goblin taunted, throwing another pumpkin bomb. "You know, I could probably treat you to the same death Osborn had, right now ... but why would that be any fun? I'm going to find it much more amusing to watch you try and find me ... " Cackling, the Goblin swooped away from the parking garage as the lower structure began to collapse.

Just before he jumped down from the impound wall, Spider-man aimed quickly, sending a jet of webbing out toward the Glider. As he fell to the ground and sprinted away from the collapsing building, he managed to catch a glimpse of what he'd hoped to see - the left engine sputtering and sending the Glider into a quickly falling corkscrew. Judging the trajectory, Spiderman ran towards where he judged the Glider would fall, waiting for the Goblin to land so that he could finish the fight.

However, somehow, the Green Goblin managed to maneuver the Glider to land on the other end of the street, falling off and landing roughly on one shoulder. Grunting, he got to his feet and ripped the webbing off the twisted fuselage of his Glider. ".... You think you're so smart, Spider-man... But don't get me wrong. We WILL meet again!" He cackled as he flew away. "And again, and again, and again...."

Spider-man frowned as he watched the Goblin retreat. "You bet we will," he said quietly. "And somehow I'm going to figure out what the hell's going on with you ..."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dim afternoon light streamed through the cracks at the edges of the curtains, refracting slightly off of edges in the room, hinting at the presence of objects, occasionally glinting off mirror or glass. The hulking, looming, muted shapes of furniture that ringed the room were covered with white sheets, giving the empty room the appearance of a ghosts' haven.

How fitting, then, that the man who slowly swung its doors open for the first time in a month should have been, by all accounts, a dead one.

Moving across the Oriental carpet, he strode straight to one draped form, whisking the sheet off with a decisive air to reveal a high-backed armchair, its upholstery comfortably worn. Folding the sheet haphazardly over his arm a few times into a bulky square, he set it down on the floor and moved on to uncover the desk, then the desk chair, the small cot bed, the wet bar, the other chairs and the coffee table. Finally, Norman Osborn dropped the armload of white sheets to the floor and sank into his old favorite chair with a content sigh.

I came straight here as soon as I got the keys from Penelope. ... Didn't even air out the foyer. I had to come here, to this room, my room. But I'm home ... I'm home. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and allowed himself a genuine smile. "No... more ... flying ... slippers," he said decisively. That, though, brought to mind his own pair of slippers, and he kicked off his loafers, opening his eyes to scan the floor for the more comfortable footwear. As he did so, his eyes fell on something he had overlooked - something crucial.

Suddenly, Norman found himself getting to his feet, only regaining control of his motion as he came to stand in front of the long, wide mirror once more -- this, too, covered from prying eyes.

"Now, why," he muttered, "would anyone cover this?"

He already knew the answer, even before he found it spoken back to him by his reflection.

"Maybe because whoever was standing here last saw something they didn't like in it, either ... "

The thought troubled Norman more than he cared to admit - and yet, at the same time, it made him smile as he pulled the sheet free and gazed into the glass, staring intently.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, he thought with an ironic chuckle that belonged partly to him, and partly to his darker half. His mind phasing out of time slightly, he let his eyes unfocus, the reflection becoming a dim blur. Maybe, he thought, if he detatched himself enough, he could see who had last stood in front of the glass ...

Fanciful little thought you've got there.

I can try.

[][][][][][][]

"You look so much like your father."

That's what people had told Harry for as long as he could remember, and he had always taken the remark with a groan and a roll of his eyes. If anything, he had wanted to look as dissimular to his father as possible, to be anyone but Norman Osborn's Son.

Now, as he stood in his father's office, waiting for the handimen to finish covering up the last of the furniture down the hall, he found himself staring into the immense mirror, searching desperately for the resemblence. Anything, anything to keep his father alive in the slightest way. Maybe if I stare hard enough, he thought, it'll be like that old kids' movie, and suddenly my reflection will turn into Dad ... maybe I'll be able to see him ... I need to see him ...

And in a way, he could. He saw his father in the curvature of his own jaw, the lines of his nose, the color of his eyes, and the way his eyebrows settled over them in a serious line. Even the color of his hair ...

"Dad," Harry whispered, reflexively lifting a hand to the glass. Somewhere in his mind's eye, in the part of his imagination not robbed by the loss of childhood, Harry could see his hand ripple through the glass like water, like Alice in Wonderland, reach through to grasp his father by the wrist and pull him back through, back to him. Then a shiver ran through his fingers from the cool of the mirror's surface, slinking down his spine to his toes and pulling him back to reality. The cold ... his father was cold, now, too...

Harry's throat went dry, and he worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as his pulse quickened.

What was the last thing I said to my father? ... I can't remember. .... I can't remember. God, how horrible is that? All I remember is something about him wanting to make things up to me ... something about telling him about Peter and MJ...

Flinching, Harry realized that his clearest memories of his father were ...

Those long minutes I spent standing in front of that desk while I got reamed out for failing yet another private school.

Spending the longest time trying to get him to come out of the office on my birthday, to do something, even if it wasn't with me ... every time he looked at me ... A silent, clear reminder that it was not a birthday to Norman Osborn, but a deathday ...

The way he walked straight past me at graduation to congratulate Peter, not me.

His walking out on Thanksgiving dinner ... insulting MJ, bringing us a damned fruitcake of all things ...

Norman Osborn's Son.

I was never Norman Osborn's Son..... not until that last day ....

And I can't remember a damn thing about it clearly.

Harry Osborn refocused his eyes, staring straight into his own soul

I used to think Dad was a terrible father, deep down, even while I admired his success ...

A tear slipped down his cheek as he drew his fingers down the glass.

And here ... here I am, standing here ...

If he was a terrible father ... I was an even worse son ...

"Dad ... I'm sorry."

[][][][][][][]

Of course, Norman saw nor heard his son's whispered apology - only his own eyes looking back at him. However, as he let his focus slip, his eye caught on something reflected in the mirror - a frame on the mantelpiece of the fireplace. Stepping away from the mirror, Norman tore himself from the grasp of his reverie and padded over to the mantel, picking up the frame in his hands.

A picture, from graduation - Peter's Aunt May had taken it of the three of them: he and Peter and Harry. Norman frowned as he realized that he had listed Peter first in his mind, even now.

That's not very nice to poor Harry, Norman. Especially with all you've got in store for him ... The Goblin smiled, slowly seeping his influence into Norman's conciousness.

Moments later, the frame lay smashed in the hearth as a fire crackled merrily, blackening and curling the edges of Peter Parker's face as a neatly cropped photograph was placed lovingly in the leather corner of the ink blotter on Norman's desk.

Just me and Harry.

Just like it's going to be from now on.

A waxing moon hung in the sky as Spider-man lighted carefully on the fire escape outside Rachel Jenner's home. A spring breeze blew at the curtains of the open window, and he lowered himself on a strand of webbing and peered inside. He saw nothing he hadn't expected - the place was empty, due to Miss Jenner's admission to St. Dymphna Memorial Clinic, and there were indeed flower petals scattered on the floor.

Dropping down to the windowsill, the webslinger made his way inside and stepped carefully over the flower petals - which, upon closer inspection, were red roses. He crouched down on one knee and took a petal up between his fingers, his spider-sense itching somehow. Rubbing the petal between his fingers, he found it, even through the material of his suit, to be slightly moist, and the friction released a slight fragrance into the air. Drop it, drop it, drop it, the spider-sense buzzed, and he complied with a frown. I'll have to come back with some tweezers and a Ziploc baggie or something, he decided, moving toward the kitchen counter.

From what he'd done of research, Spider-man had gleaned that the police had merely taken Polaroids of the scene, and were coming back the coming morning to gather concrete evidence. Amidst murders and arson and drug trafficking, an apparent stalker case seemed to be the least of the NYPD's worries. Therefore, he was quite pleased when he found the paper still lying on the kitchen counter, a piece of stationery with what appeared to be a reprint of an old-fashioned headstone decoration on the top. The message had been written in an elegant yet blocky hand, and Spider-man felt one of his eyebrows raise of its own volition as he read:

No one beats her at her game
For very long - but just the same,
Who cares, there's no place safe to hide
Nowhere to run - No time to cry
So celebrate while you still can
'Cause any second, it may END.

"What the hell...." His voice trailed off as he read the little verse over again. "Someone's no e.e cummings," the hero muttered, commiting the odd phrase to memory. "Hmm... " Turning from the counter, he decided to scan the place once more, then gasped in surprise as he felt himself lose his balance slightly. Something's wrong. The spider-sense practically screamed at him as he moved to step towards the flower petals again, and he scowled down at them. Something about the flowers... something isn't right with the flowers... Now it was positively deafening in his ears, and in his mind's eye he saw himself collapsing on the carpet. Quickly, he snapped a web onto the windowframe and swung out of the apartment, the fresh night air flooding into his lungs.

Why the hell would flowers do that to anyone ... He winced, feeling his head spin slightly as the air began to clear his mind. Out in the clear, he thanked Heaven for his spider-sense - one more minute in that room, and whatever-it-was would have likely rendered him unconscious, possibly even dead.

One last glance towards the empty, toxic room, and Spider-man swung off through the night to warn the police.

"... Thank you, Ms. Jenner," Penelope smiled, as Rachel Jenner signed the papers that had been placed on her bedside table. "I'm sorry to bother you here at the hospital, but ... Mr. Denver insisted that the deal go through as soon as possible for our benefit."

"Yes, it's quite alright," Jenner said faintly, her blue eyes slightly clouded with fatigue. "I'm glad to help."

"Mm, well, I'm glad you changed your mind," Penelope smiled, folding up the investment contract and setting it carefully in her briefcase. "You won't regret investing in Ludenvardht, I'm sure."

"Well, if the chemicals Mr. Denver plans on producing do half of what he says they will, I don't care how humble the place is, you're going to blow Oscorp out of the water, Quest merger or no." Jenner turned her head on the pillow and looked anxiously out the window.

"Miss Jenner?"

"Forgive me." She shook her head. "I've been a little jittery, lately..."

"I can imagine," Penelope said sympathetically, getting to her feet. "An attack like that ... Mr. Denver sends his condolences. Is there anything we can do for you?"

"No ... no, I'll be fine ... I just need time..."

"Mm, time," she nodded. "Spend it wisely, it flies. Take care, Miss Jenner." With that, Penelope left the hospital room, her high heels clacking on the linoleum. How funny that she changed her mind. Just a couple of days ago, she wasn't going to invest at all, said that her bid had already been promised to Quest... Boy wasn't it fun to watch Osborn's hackles go up when I told him THAT ... She chuckled, then blinked as her gaze fell upon an issue of the Daily Bugle in the waiting room. An article on Jenner's assault was spread in garish 72-point Impact across the front page, with a black-and-white of the crime scene. As Penelope's eyes fell upon the photograph, she felt a slight jolt, as if she had downed a shot of espresso, but she shook it off and headed out to the parking lot, unlocking her sleek black VW Jetta from the end of the aisle before swinging into the driver's seat and blaring the stereo on her way out. A jaunty, upbeat tune on horns and electric guitar issued from the speakers, and she sang along raucously, not caring if she was in tune or not.

"You worry too much! You make yourself sad! You can't change fate ... don't feel so bad!" She laughed as she slowed for a yellow light, glancing down at the newspaper. The photograph drew her eye, again, and she found herself grinning.

"Been there ... done that," she giggled suddenly. "... Wait." Penelope frowned. " .... That was ... me?" A few blinks, as the light turned green. Then an even broader smile. "Hey.... that was ME."

"HEY, MOVE IT, BITCH!" The driver behind her hollered, leaning on his horn.

"SHUT UP," Penelope snarled back. "AFTER ALL ....." She cranked the stereo up even further, punctuating the words.

".... No one lives forever!"

Peeling down the street, she leant back slightly, one arm dangling out the open window, beating time against the side of the car. "So, that was me, then," she said to herself. "... Pretty damn cool." As she reached to rewind the stereo, her cellular phone rang, and she snatched it off the visor of the Jetta, flipping it open. "Yeah, WHAT," she sassed. "....Yeah, I got the contract. It's been taken care of. .... How'd she change her mind?" A smirk spread across her lips. "I just ... helped her see it a different way. You know? Life's too short to worry about if you're making the wrong decision. .... So glad you approve. .... What? I don't want a staff meeting, it'd just be you and me anyway.... Oh, FINE, fine. I'll be there later. .... Yes. Shut up, I'm hanging up now." Rolling her eyes, Penelope snapped the phone closed and tossed it onto the seat beside the newspaper.

You know ... next time I do something like this, I'll have to make sure I remember it.

Mary Jane Watson bit her lip as she knocked on the door to Peter's apartment, clutching her tryout script to her chest with her free arm. "Peter?"

The door opened a crack, and a pair of bluegray eyes peered out at her. "He's not here. Come back later."

"Harry," she nodded, more from manners than anything else. "I didn't get the chance to tell you ... I'm sorry about your fath--"

"No you're not," Harry snapped, closing the door. ".... MJ, we know we're both sick of each other, so just leave, okay? Peter'll be back to take your Playboy pictures later, and I'll be sure to be gone so I don't have to even hear it."

"...What?"

"You heard me," Harry growled.

Mary Jane glared at the door, then bashed her fist against it angrily before storming back down the hall. "I HOPE I'M NOT THE FIRST PERSON TO TELL YOU YOU'RE JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER!" She hollered after him.

"GOOD!" Harry shouted. "I'M GLAD!" Flopping back down into the kitchen chair, he picked up a gummi bear from the bag he'd been munching on and hurled it at the closed door. ".... Bitch," he mutterred sullenly, as Peter came barreling down the stairs.

".... Harry, was that MJ?" He frowned, rubbing at his eyes.

"Yeah, you just missed her," Harry scoffed, tossing another gummi bear and hitting the peephole of the door with astonishing precision.

"... Nice hit," Peter remarked flatly. "Harry, I know MJ hurt you, but ... she's still my friend, and ... "

"And what, you want me to make nice with her? I tried that. It didn't work last time, if you recall."

"That wasn't your fault."

"What, so you're blaming Dad now?" Harry's eyes flashed dangerously, and Peter frowned. "I never get credit for anything, not even my own faults, anymore. ... Pete, I was stupid enough to go after her, and Dad was smart enough to show me what she was really after. I can take responsibility for that. If there's one thing Dad taught me, it's that you shouldn't blame anyone for something if you can realize that you did it."

Peter frowned sadly. "I never said that it was your fault."

"Well, maybe you should," Harry replied, popping a yellow bear into his mouth and kicking back in the chair. "I mean, come on. I've coasted through life, Pete. ... I've got to start taking responsibility."

"But you are - you're doing well in your classes..."

"I don't know my major. I don't have a job. I don't really know where I'm going, Peter, and Dad had his whole damned road map plotted out when he was my age - I know, I heard the speech a million ttimes. He was just like you..." Harry chuckled. "So yeah... I've got to get cracking, Pete. ... Will you help me find a job?"

"Er..." Peter blinked. "Sure, Harry." Slowly, he smiled, then reached for the Bugle's want-ads section. "Here... you check this out, I'll go fish the Times out of the pile on my desk..."

"Thanks." Harry smiled, and the smile was absolutely genuine, devoid of any of the sullen self-hatred that Peter had seen in his best friend's face just moments ago.

Involuntarily, Peter felt himself shudder.

Tudor Hills was absolutely, undeniably huge.

That was Penelope's first impression as she pulled up into the driveway of the massive building that housed Norman's spatial penthouse apartment. Even if he only owns the top half of this place .... Penelope craned her neck upwards towards the balconies and the spires of the roof and allowed herself a low whistle. Stepping up to the front door, she pressed the buzzer that had recently been relabeled to read "L. Denver", and folded her arms, waiting. Her Ray-Ban sunglasses slid down low on the tip of her nose as she stared at the intercom, daring it to answer her.

"Who's this?"

"Danny Elfman. Who do you think it is?" Penelope rolled her eyes. "Let me in, already."

".... Danny Elfman?"

"Ya know, for a multimillionaire, you're an uncultured swine."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Inside, into the elevator, fifth floor. I'll be waiting for you."

"Too damn kind," Penelope muttered, as a buzzer sounded and the door swung open. Quickly, she marched over to the elevator and jabbed at the appropriate button with a red fingernail. As the car reached the fifth floor, she could hear classical music playing, somewhere, a waltz. Stepping out into a narrow hallway with marble floors, she made her way over to the door and knocked loudly.
The music was turned down, and eventually the door swung open.

"I'm here to see Louis Denver," Penelope said irritably to the dark-haired man standing in her way. "And you are?"

He smiled, tipping his gilt-framed glasses down over his nose and looking out over them at her. "... Louis Denver."

Penelope took a step back and squinted, taking off her sunglasses.

His hair was dark, an almost black shade of brown, brushed back from his forehead in a dapper style, and the glasses gave him a look that was so close to being geeky that she couldn't help but grin mockingly. Yet, once she took a closer look -- Yeah, there's that weird nose. And that smart-ass smirk ... and he's definately got green color contacts in, but ...

"Sonofabitch, Osborn," she exclaimed, her lip curling up somewhere between incredability and a sneer, "what th' hell did you do to yourself?"

He laughed, sliding the glasses back up his nose as he ushered her inside. "I told you, I'm Louis Denver. Norman Osborn's deceased, he doesn't live here anymore."

"If I weren't so amused by how ridiculous you look, you'd be ducking high heels," she snickered, stepping into the foyer. "So, this staff meeting. What's on the agenda?"

He led her into his office, seating her at a massive mahogany desk amid tribal masks and file folders. Sitting down across from her, he slid an olive-green folder across towards her. "That."

Penelope flipped it open, then blinked. "Who're all these people?"

"Potential investors. They all had their fingers in the pie at either Oscorp or Quest, and if we can snag them for ourselves, not only will we benefit tremendously, but those two will go down slowly.... nice and slow, so there's a minimal margin of suspicion."

"Bringing Baby Fargas down is going to be my absolute pleasure," Penelope smirked, caressing the folder's contents. "Where would you like me to start..."

"Whoever you wish." He paused, then pulled a copy of the Bugle from underneath the ink blotter. "You wouldn't know anything about this .... would you?"

She shook her head, trying not to be too quick about it. "No, this is the first I've heard."

"... Oh." He nodded, something undecipherable in his eyes. "Why don't I get you an iced coffee."

Penelope grinned. "I've had a craving for one all day."

Two weeks flew by, and in that span of time, seven of New York's more prominent investors ended up hospitalized in various states of paranoia or dementia. Some of them had enough of their wits about them to mutter phrases in kind to the evidence Rachel Jenner had given: a female figure, with a pale, sullen, skull-like visage and a low, silky voice. The newest detail in the profile stated that she wore grey, but that was all. The same verse was left at each of the crime scenes, as well as the rose petals.

The rose petals. That was what bothered Peter the most. He hadn't been able to get any from the crime scene without figuring out a way to isolate himself from the chemicals while analyzing them. From what he'd seen of hospital records and police accounts, the chemicals went for a person's immune system, and from there, attacked the neural pathways, blocking off chemical receptors in the frontal lobe and altering perception. Not really too complicated - introductory psychology could teach anyone about how it worked - but the complexity was in the danger that the stuff brought.

Whoever this woman is ... she eats a lot of chicken soup, and she takes her vitamins, Peter thought wryly, flipping through the back issues of the Bugle that he'd saved clipped in a folder. He pulled out a piece of paper and began to write down the names of the assault victims. Jenner, Blackwell, Rountree, Wilson, Griffin, Nethala, Hartman. He'd seen them all somewhere... he knew he had...

"Hey Pete?"

Peter looked up as Harry came to stand in the doorway of his bedroom, a mug of coffee in one hand and a thick folder tucked under the other. "Hey, Harry ... what're you doing up s'late..."

"I was ... I was reading my mail," Harry admitted, setting the mug down beside Peter's file folder. "Thought you might want some caffiene. ... What's that?"

"Oh. I've been following the investor attacks ... in case Jameson wants me to do photos. It's better to be informed."

"Really. ... You know what, I was talking to Penelope today --"

"This the Hot Girl I keep hearing about?"

Harry sent his friend a mock glare. "Yeees. And she said that it was a really funny thing."

A frown crossed Peter's face as he reached for his coffee and sipped at it. "Oh? Whatcha mean?"

"You know," Harry said, as if anything Penelope said were obvious information. "The fact that they're all Oscorp or Quest clients."

Peter blinked, then beamed. "Harry?"

"Yuh huh."

".... You're a genius."

"Me? Naw."

"Yaw," Peter mocked, getting up to clap his friend on the back. "I've had enough of this, and I'm sure you've had enough of mail. Want to play Gran Turismo with me?"

Harry grinned. "Of course. I'm gonna kick your butt, though, so be warned."

"Ohhh, I don't think so." Peter rolled his eyes. "... What's got you making such a big deal over mail lately, anyway..."

"Nothing." Harry shook his head. It's just that tonight I found out that Dad used to love Creative Writing classes. I never would have thought ...

"Well, come on. Car racing awaits us."

"Right."

"And Harry?"

"Yeah, Pete."

".... Go on and ask her out already, won't you?"

"Er. .... Sure."

"Livin' way under in a penthouse high, our steaks are rare and our martinis dry ..." Penelope sang happily, riding the elevator up to the fifth floor of Tudor Hills. "Baby, baby, baby, ain't this the life ..." She laughed, stepping out into the foyer of Norman's penthouse. However, the moment she set foot on the parquet floor, something deep down told her to be very quiet - and very still.

Being Penelope Jamirez, she could only do one at a time - so she opted for quiet and made her way towards the staircase. Osborn's talking to someone, she realized, straining her ears to hear his voice drift out from his office. Biting her lip, she edged closer up the stairs.

"... I can't," he was saying. "I won't do that to him. He isn't ready."

"He has to know," a deep, harsh voice grated. "You have to tell him someday."

"He'll hate me."

"So? For all you know, he already DID. And besides ... would you rather him find out about Spider-man first, or about you and I?"

You and I? Penelope wrinkled her nose. Didn't think him to be the type. Unless that's a really, really, really mannish sounding woman. And I doubt it.

"..... You. And I. He needs to know that we're one and the same."

What the HELL...?

"Yes," the cold voice hissed. "Then he'll understand. Then, he'll want to help us kill the little Spider, too... which is just a bonus."

"A bonus we've been wanting since Day One at World Unity."

"Of course."

Penelope's eyes widened. Faster than she could register, it began locking into place. The weird, creepy obsession with the masks that hung all over the place. The way Osborn was so ... moody. Where he went, how he was able to get back on his feet so quickly....

"Dios mijo," she whispered.

"But Harry," Norman pleaded. "Are you sure we want to do this to Harry..."

"WE HAVE TO DO THIS TO HARRY!"

Penelope flinched as she heard a loud crack from the office. Without thinking, she sprinted the rest of the way upstairs and into the room. I don't care how loco en la cabeza he is. He gives me paychecks. And to do that he needs to be alive. "Osborn?"

She rounded the corner to see him crumpled on the floor, in front of that giant pierglass mirror he was so fond of, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth and staining his fingertips. After a moment, he lifted his eyes to her, and Penelope couldn't help but flinch - his expression seemed to be exactly what you'd see in a Webster's beside "helpless". "Infierno y perdicion," she swore. "What got hold of you?"

His eyes flashed for a moment, and she gulped as they turned pitch black, iris and all. "How long were you out there?" It was almost inhuman, the hissing tone that sprang from his lips, and instantly she recognized it as the other voice.

I didn't want to believe what I'd been hearing, but ... "Long enough," she replied, struggling to keep calm. For all I know he's a homicidal maniac.

"Well, then, Lamuerta, I suppose it's a pleasure to meet you."

Penelope stumbled back, gulping. "....How did you ....?"

"How do you think? I made you, gorgeous."

"Made me? Gorgeous? Pig." Sneering, she moved to slap him across the face, then winced as he caught hold of her wrist and tightened his grip slowly - then, suddenly, he let go and stepped back.

"You actually find a way to slap me, and I WILL break it, next time."

"Who the hell ... are you really Norman Osborn?"

"I told you... we're Louis Denver."

She raised an eyebrow, rubbing at her wrist. "We, huh? ... Then who am I speaking to right now, Sybill?"

"Once I tell you, you won't be making jokes anymore. " He leant in close, leering. "I never got a chance to name myself ... but they like to call me The Green Goblin."

"Ohhh," Penelope blinked slowly. "The Green Goblin, eh. Well, then. Thanks for putting that idiot Fargas's SON in charge of YOUR company. ... That was such an idiotic move..."

Roughly, the Goblin stepped forward and backhanded Penelope across the face. "I wasn't supposed to 'die', you know," he spat. "But I was prepared anyway."

"Ludenvardht," she nodded, rubbing at her jaw. "The pseudonym, that trust fund ... you planned well. We'll bring down Oscorp, yet."

"You're not afraid of me?" He blinked incredulously.

"You can't hurt me. You need me for your little plan. .... Not to mention, I'm a little perturbed about you claiming to have 'made' me."

"I didn't make YOU. I made.... her." Turning toward the desk, he picked up the latest edition of the Daily Bugle and pointed to the horribly misrendered drawing of Lamuerta that one of the criminologists had attempted. "Drop by drop... a little concoction of mine."

"In WHAT?"

His face turned mocking. "Make me another glass of coffee, Osborn."

So that's why I've had this craving for iced coffee all day. She chewed on her bottom lip, thinking. "But ... Lamuerta, she's still me. I'm conscious of it now.... and she doesn't seem to be separate like you and zuramato."

"No. See, you were already a bitch. I just ... turned on the amplifier."

Penelope raised an eyebrow, then laughed. "Well, I guess I can take that as a compliment. ... So what exactly am I supposed to say, here, so I can end this conversation and get Osborn back so we can plan?"

The Goblin raised an eyebrow, then snorted, "You just said it, sister."

"...Huh?"

Suddenly, his body gave a slight twitch, as though he'd been overcome by a chill, and his eyes slowly turned back blue-grey. "Nngh. .... I wish he'd warn me when he does that," Norman said coolly, rubbing at his forehead. "So," he continued, smiling pleasantly. "Back to business?"

Penelope gaped. "Um ... yeah." Oh yeah. My boss is the friggin' Green Goblin. This is definately gonna be fun in a barrel.

Trailing and deciphering the nature of New York's newest assailant had taught Spider-man a very, very valuable lesson: It's absolutely no good how much evidence the perpetrator leaves if you can't get your hands on it. So he turned to his second modus operandi: he sat and waited.

Harry's little revelation had spurred the webcrawler to look up the names of Oscorp and Quest's more prominent shareholders and investors. He made a list and mapped out a route around their houses, then, every night, made his rounds. As he swung through upscale Manhattan, one particular crisp summer night, Spider-man allowed his mind to wander ever so slightly off course.

Oscorp. ... Why Oscorp? ... This isn't Goblin's doing. And even if it were, Norman Osborn is dead. I've been over that a billion times in my mind - as much as I don't care to. What's going on that Oscorp's investors are all ... He scowled. Quest. Maybe it has something to do with the Quest merger. But ... but there are Quest investors on that list, too ... He frowned as he reached the fourth stop on his rounds, the flat of Quest investor Lynn Chase. Spider-man crouched carefully on one of the decorative sculptures that adorned the roofline of the building, and listened, carefully.

Somewhere, either a couple of buildings away, or down below, he could hear quiet singing... quiet, but contained, as if all the singer really wanted was to shout it to the stars.

"Let's have a party, there's a full moon in the sky, it's the hour of the wolf, an' I don't wanna die ..."

The spider-sense formed its own counterpoint to the melody, and that was more than enough to put Spider-man on full alert, scanning the area as quickly and accurately as he could. Finally, he spotted something - a figure in grey and black, with a touch of gauzy, ghostly white, scaling the fire escape. Thin, limber, and ... he was pretty sure, female. Not so much by the silhouette, but by the way she moved, by the grace evident even in the way she gripped the rungs of the rusty iron ladder.

Anchoring a strand of web to the lip of the roof, Spider-man lowered himself down until he hung just above her. "Hey," he pointed out. "Costume party's down the block. And Halloween isn't for another couple months."

She started, nearly losing her grip on the ladder, then caught herself and climbed up onto one of the fire escape's platforms. "Really. And I couldn't say the same about you?" She purred, her voice tinged with a light Spanish accent. "You must be Spider-man."

"Actually," he shrugged - a strange motion upside-down, "itt's really The Amazing Spider-man ... they screw it up on a regular basis."

"That's because it's a mouthful." She rolled her eyes, then made as if to brush past him and continue her climb. He merely shimmied up the webline, staying eye-to-eye with her. ".... You want something, ask."

"Your name would be nice, for posterity." Across the way, one of his cameras went off, the zoom lens expertly capturing the owlish black marks around her eyes in the shadows of her grey hood.

"Mm. Well, it's certainly not as fancy-pants as yours." She shrugged it off and kept climbing. Relentlessly, he followed her, slowly crawling his way back up the strand. ".... You're worse than this one geek I knew in college," she muttered. "If I tell you will you leave me alone? I have work to do."

"Depends on the work."

"Ugh, men," she sneered, her red lips peeling back for a flash of teeth and gumline. "Fine. They call me ..." Here she smiled, vaulting up onto another platform. "Lamuerta."

".... Lamuerta. Someone doesn't know their espanol, death is a masculine term."

"As I said ... men." She rolled her eyes, deep black in their sockets. "Whether death comes as a man, or as a woman ... people still fear her."

"Well, I'm shaking." He looked over her costume, nonplussed. A grey leotard with matching hood, clasped in place by a black choker band adorned with a cartoonish, laughing skull. One leg and arm were adorned in gauzy white fabric, while the others were sheathed in skin-tight black lycra. The black arm bore an applique of a red rose, and a bone anklet graced the leg draped in white. Both her feet were encased in black china flats, and a large pouch was slung low across her hips. "... Where'd you shop, the Patchwork Express?"

Lamuerta looked down her nose at him. "You're in too much of a hurry, little bug. Has anyone ever told you to stop..." She reached for her satchel, pulled out a rose. "...and smell the roses?"

"I'm a carnation man, myself," he replied, dodging her throw. "Roses are overrated. Especially when you go giving them to wealthy, defenseless people, and they end up braindead." With that, he shot out a strand of webbing, catching her by the arm. ".... I'd like to know why you're doing that. If you don't mind."

"Oh, I think I do," she countered, attempting to free herself. Great. What the hell is this stuff...? I can't get it off...!

".... So, looks like I'm the only guy around who can stop Death?" Spider-man quipped, wrapping another strand of webbing around her ankles. "We're going for a little ride, you and I, I know some guys who'd love to meet you. You'll be great at cocktail parties in cell block nine."

"Like hell," Lamuerta muttered, struggling with the webs at her feet even as the webslinger dropped onto the platform of the fire escape and draped her across his shoulders.

"You're not exactly a featherweight, are you. Leave the ethereal shroud at home?"

"Hijo de puta," she spat, kicking at him.

"Haven't been eating our Wheaties either. .... No offense meant, Lady Death, but you kick like a girl." As he shot out a strand of web to an adjacent building, he suddenly felt her weight plucked from his shoulders, and frowned. "What..."

"It's about time you got here," Lamuerta panted, as the Green Goblin ripped the webbing from her arms and legs.

"Shut up," he snarled, throwing her to the ground. "And get out of here, I have a bone to pick."

"Well geez," she snorted, picking herself up off the asphalt. "My friggin' hero."

"So," Spider-man swung over to the fire escape once more, dodging a pumpkin bomb. "What brings you here, Gobby? The excellent company?"

"In part," the Goblin admitted. "I came to see if you're ready to take me up on that offer I made you - seems so long ago, doesn't it..."

"I'll never join you," he vowed. "Not after what you've done to me, and my family ..."

"I've still got a few loose threads to pick at...." The grin unchanging, the Green Goblin swooped down and patted Spider-man's cheek with an armored hand, then flew out of range before he could be hit. "Don't worry, little Spider. I'll see you come undone." With that, he flew off into the night, leaving Spider-man on the balcony with his thoughts, and leaving a very frustrated and failing villainess to limp her way through the streets of Manhattan.

"Not if I do it first ... Dropping me on the street like trash ... oooh I'm going to get you for that," Lamuerta muttered, then paused long enough to ball up a fist and ram it angrily into a nearby wall.

Silence, for a moment.

Then residents within a three-block radius woke to the sound of a woman screeching - not in rage, but in pain.

"So how'd you get that?" Norman blinked, looking at Penelope across the kitchen counter as they shared cups of coffee and stock reports.

She cradled her heavily-bandaged hand close to her chest. "Shut up, Osborn ..."

He snickered. "If you're going to be a villain, you've got to realize something."

"Yes?"

"You can't fight worth shit, Penelope." He chuckled, shaking his head.

A snarl curled up full and red around her teeth. "I told you to shut it." Almost instantly, the sneer disappeared, replaced by a too-sweet smile. "By the way. Did I tell you what I'm doing today?...."

Harry Osborn bit his lip nervously as he tapped his foot on the sidewalk outside Oscorp-Quest Industries. "Pete, I just know I'm gonna bomb this."

"Harry, please." Peter grinned, watching Harry check his watch for what had to be the tenth time in the last two minutes. "She'll be here, and you'll do just fine. Physics complies that time can only move at one rate, so ... chill out."

"You sure? I mean ... Penelope's really damn cool, Pete. She's nice and she's gorgeous, and she's smart, and ... did I say she was hot?"

Peter laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, Harry, I think you did. Is that her, the black Jetta?"

".... Aw gawd, Pete, it is. See, look, I'm hyperventilating right now and I'm gonna pass OUT."

"Please," his best friend scoffed, sitting down on one of the concrete benches as the Jetta parked and Penelope Jamirez slid out onto the pavement in black cutoff shorts and a purple camisole. "...... Harry ..... " Peter muttered. ".... You didn't tell me she was that good-looking."

His nerves suddenly gone for some inexplicable reason, Harry tossed his friend his most cocky smile. ".... My date, Pete, not yours. See you later."

Peter laughed, waving as Penelope beckoned Harry toward the car. "Have fun."

"You, too..."

Me, too, huh? Peter mused, as the Jetta peeled away from the curb. Yeah, I'm gonna spend my afternoon wondering what the hell the Goblin's up to, and tracking down that Lamuerta character.... real fun. ... I know I should be concentrating on her, first, but .... the Goblin .... nngh. Maybe I'll go see Aunt May, just in case ... I don't know who he's going to go after, this time ...

Glass shattered, echoing through the empty halls of Tudor Hills like a ghost's keen as the brandy snifter hit the wall.

"My SON," Norman snarled, storming back and forth across his room, his fists clenching and unclenching wildly, waving, threading in his hair, pulling, punching at air. "She's going to lunch with my damned son. Does he even know how old she is? She could be ... she's nearly Emily's age ... or how old Emily would have been ... nearly... DAMMIT..." He raged over to the gigantic pierglass mirror and fumed at his reflection. "I don't believe it."

"Well, think of it this way...." The Goblin suggested with a spread of his hands. "It'll bring the boy to you again ... to us, at last."

"Harry ... ?" Norman panted, catching his breath. Glancing around, he caught sight of the result of his tantrum and knelt on the floor, scooping up the broken glass shards in his hands like diamonds. "Harry. .... But .... Us? No, no, I can't tell him about us, it would destroy him ..."

The Goblin forced Norman's hands to clench around the glass, leering. "Oh, Normy, but when things break .... you melt them down again .... and you make something new." He stood, leading them both to the fireplace, where he dropped the glass into the flame, watching the fire glisten on the blood-spotted shards before they melted down into a clean, smooth pool of liquid. "Put something in the fire, and it becomes malleable, Norman. Shapeable. You've seen blown glass ... you've seen how beautiful it is ..." He reached up, patted Norman's cheek. "Come on, Normy. Let's make Harry beautiful."

Shaking, Norman wiped his hands on the small towel inside the mini-bar. "... Yes ..." He nodded slowly. "Yes. But ... if the glass breaks too finely, there's nothing to mold," he reminded himself. "We must be careful."

A snort from the back of his throat. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"We can't tell him about Parker. That's something he needs to find out on his own ... once he's molded." Norman insisted, hanging the towel back in its place and dousing the fire.

"....Nngh. I suppose, for once ... "

"I'm right, too." Norman smiled, kneeling, reaching out for the lump of glass cooling in the ashes, streaked through with tiny spots of red. ".... Absolutely beautiful."

The Cat's Meow was a tiny, humble little cafe, done over in vibrant colors on the walls, the tables swathed in cloth to match. Plants hung in the windows, and folk art of cats made up the decor. Penelope and Harry took their seats at a window booth, after a harried drive through scenic Manhattan traffic.

"Damned Sunday drivers," Penelope muttered.

But it's Tuesday, Harry thought, then let it drop. "This is a really nice little place."

"Gracias," she smiled, looking down at the paper placemats protected under the glass - reproductions of old cabaret posters emblazoned with Le Chat Noir. "It was a lunch break spot back when I worked at Oscorp."

"You worked at Oscorp, too?" Harry blinked, picking up his menu.

"Yeah ... then I quit, not long before your father died - didn't like where it was headed. Looks like I left just in time," Penelope lied. More like not soon enough!

"Well, I'm glad you did. I wouldn't have met you - and I wouldn't have gotten to write back and forth to Mr. Denver," Harry chuckled, gazing out the window and catching sight of a newspaper box on the sidewalk. Need a conversation topic. Need a --- oh. That works. "Hey, have you been following all those attacks?"

"Attacks?" Penelope absentmindedly rubbed at a bruise on her thigh.

"Yeah ... the Lamuerta ones on all the Oscorp people. It's really getting kinda serious. I heard the last guy admitted even had seizures."

Mixed that batch a bit too strong, Penelope reminded herself, trying to keep her proud smile whittled down to a tiny one that simply communicated interest. "Yeah ... I say Oscorp was asking for it, though. Wouldn't be surprised if she was working with the Green Goblin."

"The Green Goblin," Harry echoed. Spider-man's worst enemy. So ...I wonder. "Yeah."

"Conversationalist," Penelope giggled, as the waiter came to take their drink orders - a Pepsi Twist for Harry, and an iced coffee for Penelope. "Honestly, Harry, what do you think?"

"I think ... " He paused, then blinked in surprise. "Nobody's really asked me."

"Well, I'm asking you now, aren't I?"

"Okay. Uh. Give me a second," he decided, as the waiter set down their drinks. He watched as Penelope drew out a small bottle from her purse. "What's that?"

She shrugged, pouring a slightly tinted cream into her coffee. "I prefer this in my coffee, really. A little Irish Creme."

"It must be some other brand, then, I've never seen green Bailey's."

"You wanna try some, cutie?" Penelope giggled, watching the cream drizzle down into her glass before reaching for a spoon to stir it.

"Hey, wait," Harry held up a hand. "It looks kinda cool that way, all swirly."

She blinked, looked at him for a long moment. "You and Louis," she muttered. Like father like son. "So you decide what you think yet?"

Harry cocked his head, watching the cream for a moment more before Penelope stirred the entire glass into the same smooth shade of tan. "Dunno. I mean ... I just found out about Dad ... what Mr. Denver's last letter said, that he got fired..."

"Yeah, that pretty much sucked." Penelope nodded. "I was sad to hear that he had to go. And then the Goblin annihilated the Board - so, it may have been just as well."

Harry shuddered as he remembered seeing the Board of Directors disintegrate before his eyes. "... Yeah," he said finally. I wouldn't have wanted to watch Dad die like that ... to not have anything left of him ... not even a gravestone. "You're right, Oscorp's gotten terrible." He scowled as he remembered the way Mr. Fargas' son had treated him in the office, imagining that they had given his father the same treatment, the same cold shoulder. Something flickered across Harry's mind, and he snatched it before it could disappear - the thing that had been nagging at his mind ever since Denver's first letter. "Whoever this Lamuerta is, I wish I could find her and thank her for giving Oscorp what they deserve."

Oh, why not. Penelope leant across the table, looking up at him conspiratorily, her hair falling around her face like a hood. "You're welcome, chico."

Harry's jaw dropped. "... You ..."

"Me," she giggled, leaning back in her seat and sipping at her iced coffee, thrilling at the feel of caffiene and Osborn's formula intertwined and racing through her blood. Take another step, go on. She pouted. "Unfortunately, Spider-man's been kicking my ass."

The boy looked a bit more shocked than she'd expected - and a little more angry. "He's after you?"

Quite a bit of devotion for the first date, Penelope thought admirably. "Yeah... luckily the Green Goblin showed up and distracted him so I could get away."

"Are you really working with him?"

"... Sort of," Penelope muttered. "He gives me little things I need. Weapons and things."

Harry sipped at his soda, mulling it all over in his mind. So my new girlfriend's Lamuerta, and she's hanging out with the Green Goblin .... she's taking out Oscorp, which ruined my father. And the Goblin ... "Did you decide to go after the investors yourself, after you quit?"

"It was an idea," she shrugged. "But ... let me tell you who gave me the go-ahead."

"... Mr. Denver," Harry realized.

"You catch on fast."

He managed an awkward smile, the gears in his head spinning at what he concluded must have been at least Mach 4. "When I'm told things." Putting a hand to the side of his neck, he tilted it until he heard the vertebrae crack. "If Spider-man's on to you, both you and Mr. Denver are in trouble. Spider-man already got my father," he said quietly. "... I don't want him to get you, too."

One long, thin black brow raised in a delicate curve over Penelope's eye. "I think," she decided, "it's time you met Mr. Denver."

Central Park, Peter Parker decided, was a very ambiguous place. It could be dangerous, full of muggers and druggies and all sorts of vagrant, despicable criminals. Or, if you were out in the daylight, on the side of the lake, stretched out on an oversized quilt your Aunt May made long before you were even born, and a picnic lunch between you, said Aunt, and your best-friend Mary Jane Watson, it could be absolutely delightful.

Even if he was more worried about their safety against the Green Goblin than the amount of light he was going to use for Mary Jane's audition photos.

"... and then, he said that maybe I should give up while I was ahead," Aunt May said matter-of-factly to Mary Jane. "Flunked me, too."

Mary Jane's eyes widened. "Oh, no, Aunt May, but ... what did you do?"

"Tried again. And again. And the next year, do you know what?"

She shook her head.

"That pie sitting on that picnic blanket won me first prize in the Borough Fair." She smiled, her eyes sparkling as they crinkled up at the corners, like the crow's-feet marks on the edges of her blueberry pie. "Haven't changed the recipe since."

"Oh, so there's a moral in this," Peter grinned.

"Of course there is," Aunt May laughed, turning back to MJ. "And that is - no matter who flunks you out, you keep trying. I know you've got the talent, Mary Jane. You just keep right on being who you feel you need to be, and you'll turn out blue-ribbon."

"Thanks, Aunt May," Mary Jane smiled, blushing as she poured them all fresh glasses of raspberry lemonade from the Tupperware pitcher that Peter had packed in the basket. "Hey, guys," she blinked, looking out over the lake. "Check out the boat race."

Peter's eyes drifted over the water as he caught sight of one of the boats, blue, streaking out ahead of the others. "That's really neat," he grinned.

"You and Harry could do quite well with something like that," Aunt May mused, watching the smaller, slower sailboats circle the shallows. "Which reminds me ... where is Harry today?"

"He was going... going to go meet with an old friend of his father's," Peter replied.

"Well, whatever," Mary Jane sniffed. "He practically slammed the door in my face the other day..."

"Now, now, you ... you can't blame Harry," Aunt May said gently. "The poor boy's been through a lot. It was his father who was so rude to you ... Mr. Osborn ... I found that so strange ... he was always so hospitable to you, Peter." She blinked, noticing the worried look slowly settling over her nephew's face. "... Peter?"

"Harry," he whispered. "Aunt May ... I have to go find a phone ... I need to call Harry ..." If you want to unravel me, Gobby, I won't let you use Harry ... whoever you are behind the mask, now.

The house still looked exactly the same as it had the last time Harry had stood in it, watching the attendants cart his father's body out of the house on the gurney ... covered in that sheet. The young Osborn suppressed a shudder as he stepped into the lobby, glancing around at the masks, the folder of Louis Denver's correspondance clutched in his hands.

As he stood there, he began to take odd comfort in the thing he'd been mulling over in his mind since his luncheon with Penelope. Masks ... His mind drifted naturally toward the Green Goblin, and he smiled a bit. The Green Goblin. Somehow, maybe, if I help Pen, if I help Lamuerta, I'll meet the Green Goblin. I've still got a bit of the money Dad left to me ... maybe it'll be enough to pay him to kill Spider-man. Then Penelope and I can finish off Oscorp, and Denver will have New York's chemical empire to himself, and we'll all have smoothed things over .... I'll have avenged Dad, Pen will have cleared out what Oscorp and Quest did to her ... and Denver ... Harry paused. That was the only flaw in the pattern of thought he'd built up. I don't know what he wants ... Guess I'll find out soon enough.

Coughing lightly, he padded through the foyer, more than half-afraid that he'd see his father's ghost walking through the building in the fading afternoon light.

And then ... there, at the top of the stairs... a voice.

"Harry Osborn. Well, well, well. What a fine young man you've turned out to be."

A shiver rushed down Harry's spine, and he turned to see a man making his way down the stairs, a few errant rays of the sunset glinting off his glasses. "... Mr. Denver?" He managed. Breathe, Harry. It isn't Dad.

"The one and only," he smiled, coming to stand in the shadow at the end of the staircase. "Good to finally lay eyes on you, son."

The tone was congenial, of course, but ... wait. Harry squinted his eyes, peering into the darkness, as Louis Denver raised up a hand and slowly, carefully removed his spectacles.

The folder of letters crashed to the floor.

"... Welcome home, Harry."

Peter scrambled for the pay phone at the edge of Central Park, fishing in his pockets for loose change. Finally locating his thirty-five cents, he jammed it into the slot and frantically dialed his best-friend's cellular phone number ... and listened to it ring, and ring, and ring ...

Oh please, Harry, please be okay, don't let him have you... don't let him have you...

Then the phone picked up, and Peter could hear Harry's laughter tapering off.

"Hello?"

"Harry! Harry, you okay?"

".... Yeah, Pete. I'm great.... I'm great..."

"Great? ... Good." He sighed in relief. "Where are you?"

Then, somewhere, faint, from beyond the phone, "Harry? ... Is that Peter?"

Peter froze.

"Yeah. You wanna talk to Mr. Denver, Pete?"

"Mr. ...." Peter's voice trailed off. "No ... no, Harry ... " He choked. "It's okay .... I gotta go, I'm on a pay phone ..."

"I'll see you later, okay, Pete?"

"Yeah ... yeah, Harry."

"Bye!"

On either side of the phone, in two minds, the thoughts were exactly the same:

He KNOWS.