metal and glass from the sea of grief outside. Just a billionaire and his private thoughts, dark and heavy.
Happy slid around to the front, slipped behind the wheel. “Home, boss?”
“Straight to the airport, Hap.” Tony peered out the tinted window at the dark-suited mourners. “I know what I have to do.”
THE Baxter Building, home of the Fantastic Four, had seen its share of battles. The Sinister Six once tore up the square in front so badly, the FF had been without water for a week. Galactus, Devourer of Worlds, had been fought off from the roof. Doctor Doom once launched the entire building into space.
The people of midtown Manhattan, understandably, had a love-hate relationship with the FF. They loved having heroes in their midst, especially heroes as public and friendly as the Four. But the constant brawling and property damage had brought on civil suits, protests, and even the occasional death threat.
Still, Spider-Man had never seen anything like the scene outside today.
A solid wall of protesters formed a semicircle in front of the Baxter Building, blocking Broadway where it met Seventh Avenue at the north end of Times Square. They chanted angrily, waved signs reading:
FF OUT OF NYC!
(NEW) WARRIORS OF DEATH
REGISTRATION NOW
HEROES = MURDERERS
And perhaps most succinctly:
REMEMBER STAMFORD
Spider-Man swung over the crowd, as swiftly as he could manage. A few people pointed, and the chants stopped. The crowd grew silent for a moment, as though confused.
Great, he thought. Doesn’t anybody recognize me in the new threads?
Then a low rumble rose up, followed by a barrage of boos and whistles. A rock flew past Spidey’s head; he dodged it easily, spider-sense kicking in automatically. Then a tomato.
He let go of his webline and spread his arms wide. He felt a moment of panic; he’d only used the costume’s gliding mechanism once before, and he really didn’t want to plummet face-first into that angry mob. But at a certain point, he reflected, you had to trust something.
Or some one . Tony Stark, in this case.
Then Spider-Man was soaring, almost flying through the air. He reached out and made contact with the outer wall of the Baxter Building, then scuttled upward like his namesake, circling around the building to avoid the huge vehicle hangar doors on the top levels. Below, the crowd’s booing seemed to fade like a bad dream.
At the second level from the top, he spotted a concealed doorway built right into the brick facing. He started to reach for it—
—and turned in alarm.
“Dasvidanya.”
Natasha Romanov, the Russian super-spy called the Black Widow, sat casually on a ledge, gorgeous as always in tight black leather. She was eating a salad from a takeout container.
“Natasha,” Spider-Man said. “What—how did you get here?”
She turned, gave him a withering look. “You have airplanes in this country?”
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you. Well, someone like you. Preferably taller.” She stood, stretched precariously on the ledge. Spidey started to reach for her; the street was forty stories below. Natasha didn’t seem concerned.
“I just flew in from the Mother Country,” she continued. “Tony was kind enough to tell me about the gathering, but apparently Reed Richards didn’t get the message. I was not on the approved list at the door.” She gestured down at the crowd, now distant dots of color. “And security is a bit tight today.”
“So you just…”
“There was bound to be an airborne visitor sooner or later.”
Spidey paused, digested this for a moment. Then he shrugged and turned back to the hidden doorway.
“Johnny Storm gave me access to this,” he said. “Man, I hope he’s okay.”
“Yes, yes.” He heard her yawn.
At Spider-Man’s touch, the doorway glowed. The word AUTHENTICATING appeared, holographically superimposed over the bricks; then AUTHORIZED. The hatch swung inward.
A quick crawl through an air duct, and they dropped
Happy slid around to the front, slipped behind the wheel. “Home, boss?”
“Straight to the airport, Hap.” Tony peered out the tinted window at the dark-suited mourners. “I know what I have to do.”
THE Baxter Building, home of the Fantastic Four, had seen its share of battles. The Sinister Six once tore up the square in front so badly, the FF had been without water for a week. Galactus, Devourer of Worlds, had been fought off from the roof. Doctor Doom once launched the entire building into space.
The people of midtown Manhattan, understandably, had a love-hate relationship with the FF. They loved having heroes in their midst, especially heroes as public and friendly as the Four. But the constant brawling and property damage had brought on civil suits, protests, and even the occasional death threat.
Still, Spider-Man had never seen anything like the scene outside today.
A solid wall of protesters formed a semicircle in front of the Baxter Building, blocking Broadway where it met Seventh Avenue at the north end of Times Square. They chanted angrily, waved signs reading:
FF OUT OF NYC!
(NEW) WARRIORS OF DEATH
REGISTRATION NOW
HEROES = MURDERERS
And perhaps most succinctly:
REMEMBER STAMFORD
Spider-Man swung over the crowd, as swiftly as he could manage. A few people pointed, and the chants stopped. The crowd grew silent for a moment, as though confused.
Great, he thought. Doesn’t anybody recognize me in the new threads?
Then a low rumble rose up, followed by a barrage of boos and whistles. A rock flew past Spidey’s head; he dodged it easily, spider-sense kicking in automatically. Then a tomato.
He let go of his webline and spread his arms wide. He felt a moment of panic; he’d only used the costume’s gliding mechanism once before, and he really didn’t want to plummet face-first into that angry mob. But at a certain point, he reflected, you had to trust something.
Or some one . Tony Stark, in this case.
Then Spider-Man was soaring, almost flying through the air. He reached out and made contact with the outer wall of the Baxter Building, then scuttled upward like his namesake, circling around the building to avoid the huge vehicle hangar doors on the top levels. Below, the crowd’s booing seemed to fade like a bad dream.
At the second level from the top, he spotted a concealed doorway built right into the brick facing. He started to reach for it—
—and turned in alarm.
“Dasvidanya.”
Natasha Romanov, the Russian super-spy called the Black Widow, sat casually on a ledge, gorgeous as always in tight black leather. She was eating a salad from a takeout container.
“Natasha,” Spider-Man said. “What—how did you get here?”
She turned, gave him a withering look. “You have airplanes in this country?”
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you. Well, someone like you. Preferably taller.” She stood, stretched precariously on the ledge. Spidey started to reach for her; the street was forty stories below. Natasha didn’t seem concerned.
“I just flew in from the Mother Country,” she continued. “Tony was kind enough to tell me about the gathering, but apparently Reed Richards didn’t get the message. I was not on the approved list at the door.” She gestured down at the crowd, now distant dots of color. “And security is a bit tight today.”
“So you just…”
“There was bound to be an airborne visitor sooner or later.”
Spidey paused, digested this for a moment. Then he shrugged and turned back to the hidden doorway.
“Johnny Storm gave me access to this,” he said. “Man, I hope he’s okay.”
“Yes, yes.” He heard her yawn.
At Spider-Man’s touch, the doorway glowed. The word AUTHENTICATING appeared, holographically superimposed over the bricks; then AUTHORIZED. The hatch swung inward.
A quick crawl through an air duct, and they dropped
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