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The World's Weirdest Spiderman RPC's Journal

Wednesday, July 9, 2003

5:31PM - What the #%$@ is this?

I certainly hope that you people don't call this place a Spider-Man Community just because you talk about him here. Take a look at my LJ. I represent the wallcrawler for real!! You people should at least put a Spidey background image here - repeat AT LEAST. If someone knows the password to this place, PLEASE let me know so I can make this look how it's supposed to. Please!

Current mood: enraged

Friday, May 16, 2003

10:46PM

*a message on Norman's answering machine.. Perhaps he's there listening, and perhaps he'll hear it later*

"Norman...? Sweetheart, are you there? Pick up, please..........Norman?" There's a pause and a soft sigh, "Just my luck, heh...my one phone call and you're not there. *ahem* Um....I'm at the Newkirk Avenue police station on Brighton Line, District thirty four. It seems I'm...a bit of a danger to myself and others. Tried to burn down my house." One can hear a shuddering intake of breath. "...maybe you could send someone to come and get me, so the media doesn't know anything; I hope it' even as simple as that, but...just please, please... ........ Please. Ciao, caro a'mine." ............... *click*

Current mood: anxious

Saturday, May 3, 2003

6:13PM - OOC reminder

This isn't exactly entirely related to the RP...but today's May 3, 2003, which means that it's been one whole year since "Spider-Man" was officially released in theatres (North American ones, at least) ^_^ So go and re-watch your DVDs or videos and have fun anticipating the release of "Spider-Man II" (or hopefully, "The Amazing Spider-Man")...just about a year and two months to go until July 2, 2004...

-Moony

Current mood: content

Monday, April 28, 2003

6:35PM - OOC: The RPC Comment Form:

The Spider-Man RPC Comment Form


Rules:
1. Answer honestly and openly.
2. No character bashing allowed. Constructive Criticism is allowed.
3. Extended storyline ideas can be sent to me if you run out of room on the form.

-------

I recommend watching the movie again to "get in the mood". I listened to the score and soundtrack today and got totally pumped (not just because of the Elfman-goodness)! Those of you who play canon characters can really glean a lot of information from watching the movie/cartoons or flipping through some comics. For those of you with original characters, developing a character sheet (with individual character likes/dislikes) can really open the forum for new ideas.

I'd like to thank all of you again for the positive response to my last post; it's great to hear that so many people are still interested in keeping this great RPC alive!

Take care!

- Kate

Current mood: excited

Friday, April 25, 2003

11:56PM - The Future of the RP : An OOC Post

Alright, guys. Kate (aka: "Peter Parker", aka: "Spider-Man") here. Since the RP has been a little...er'...dead lately, I think it's time we collected ourselves and decided what we should do about it.

Ang (aka: Norman Osborn), hasn't posted in a bit. Last I heard she was the Moderator of this little slice of Journal Pie (a damned good one, if you ask me) and would contribute and control major storyline ideas and plot points to the RP. I miss seing Ang's dynamic take on Norman Osborn -- she's the glue that's held our little group together, and I don't want to rush into anything without her permission. That said, I think we should ask ourselves if we're really interested in keeping up the RP (number one), and if we are, how we should go about working out new (and interesting!) plotlines that everyone can join in (number two).

Everyone here has their own unique style and pace -- which is what makes the RP such a wonderful group to be a part of. Having held the reins over no less than three characters at one time, I can tell you that things can get pretty interesting around here, as I'm sure many of you will agree. Even if we decide to disband the group, I don't want to lose contact with any of you. You've all become incredibly special to me, and I count you among my friends. If, however, we do decide to keep the RP open (with possibly another reboot pending the release of the second movie), we'll have to work hard at it. It deserves it. You're all dynamic people with individual beauties and personalities, and I think we could really make the roleplay work again.

In the event that we decide to continue the RP, I'd like to organize several online chat sessions (or e-mail submissions) wherein you could express your likes and dislikes about the RP itself. What bugs you? What makes you happy? I'd organize the Q&A into an e-mail form, and it would be completely confidential. You dun' even have to put your name or e-mail addy on it. This way, no one's in danger of causing a rift in player's tactics. We could all take these critiques and turn them into something constructive -- something that everyone will enjoy. Moony knows more about Spider-Man than I ever will, and I think that she'd be a very valuable resource where comic canon is concerned. Maybe you could give us some tips, Moony?

Ang, I hope you're reading this. We all miss you like crazy and hope things are working out for you. You're a vital part of this group, and we love you very much. I know I'm not alone when I say that. If, for some reason, you don't want to come back to the RP, I understand completely. If you'd allow me, I'd like to take on the reins of the group be that the case. If you're still interested in pursuing the role you play so well, I think that we can all work together to make this RP exactly what it deserves to be -- the best.

So what do you say, guys?

Current mood: determined

Monday, April 21, 2003

2:31AM - OOC

:pokes the RP: Er...it hasn't entirely died yet, has it? O_o And I apologize for not having posted anything in either of my RP journals for months now :(

-Moony

Current mood: curious

Thursday, April 3, 2003

4:03PM - OOC:

Alright, sorry about the compulsive lack of posting lately. I've been totally swamped at school with stooooooopid mid-terms.

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Alright, sorry about the compulsive lack of posting lately. I've been totally swamped at school with stooooooopid mid-terms.

<Lara:> That's right, don't hold anything back.

Shaddup.

*ahrrrrm*

I'll be back in the webbed saddle as soon as I finish this major paper I'm working on for Lit Comp. I'm thinking by Saturday at the latest -- expect posts from Spidey, Lara, and David.

*motivates the lot o' ye*

Post, fiends!

Current mood: awake

Friday, March 21, 2003

2:43AM - OOC - maps

Just in case anyone was wondering...I found some potentially useful maps over at the Marvel Guide. Each map points out important fictional locations that exist in the Marvelverse (eg. ESU, the Daily Bugle, etc.) as well as real-life ones (eg. Columbia University, Central Park, etc.):

General New York area
New York City/Manhattan

If you browse around a bit more, you'll find maps for loads of other locations (not just within America either...pretty much anywhere a Marvelverse story has taken place) ^_^ Hope someone will benefit from it in some way!

Current mood: content

Friday, March 7, 2003

11:32AM - ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.

I tried to get into the Watson girl's hospital room yesterday to do some recon work for the article I was writing; to my surprise, Parker was there, all bedrumpled and bedraggled. He stopped me at the door with a palm to the shoulder that was both placatory and forceful at the same time:

"Sorry, Lara. Not today."

"C'mon, Parker. My words, your photos? We can nail that glider-riding Halloween costume if we get the word out about Suzy-Jean Watson and her trauma."

"That's Mary-Jane," he corrected me with a sour smirk, "and I don't think the public will mind waiting a week or two for a story; granted that MJ needs time to recover both physically and mentally."

I've got to give the kid credit for sticking to his guns -- after a couple more minutes of bantering it became apparent that I wouldn't be getting a soundbyte from Miss Watson. I left the hospital with my hands in the pockets of my peacoat and wandered uptown New York City for a spell despite the blistering cold. By accident (sheer accident of wandering, I tell you!) I passed by McDermott's office. On a lark a went in and swept to the information desk:

"Yeah, er'...is Ian McDermott in?"

The security guard shot me one of those looks that just oozed
'you're press, aren't you?'. He ruffled through his book and shot me a glance over the rim of his glasses:

"D'you have an appointment?"

"Well, no, but I was just wondering if I could...you know, breeze up there and...uh, shoot the...'er...breeze, as it were."

All this accompanied by descriptive hand gestures, courtesy me.

"Look Miss, you can't get upstairs without an appointment."

"Oh really? Huh, funny. I've been here many times; I was sure I didn't need an appointment to see my fiancé."

I don't know what possessed me to say it, but say it I did.

The security guard blanched for a moment, flipping through his paper stacks, "...fiancé? I wasn't told about this..." he began to look around his desktop for a number to call.

"Oh, yes. Engaged three months now!" I was glad I had worn my gold band today -- not something that McDermott would spring for, but convincing nonetheless. I continued on my roll, "are you new? I imagine you're new here. The other security guards just wave me on by this station...I imagine holding me up won't bode well for your position here."

The guard swallowed and turned pale.

"But if you insist on being mean about it," I said airily, "I'm sure my intended could cut your severence package to half of its original value..."

"Your intended what?" came a voice from behind me. From the guard's face, I could tell that I was busted. I turned and found myself face to face with Ian McDermott, probing smile arched to his lips. I froze.

"My...er...my..."

The security guard chimed in, "your fiancée, Mr. McDermott. Sorry I didn't let her go up right away, I was unaware of protocol."

Ian pinioned me with an amused expression and then looked to the guard, "Quite alright, Wallace, you're new here after all." He then took me daintily by the arm and led me toward the doors, speaking loudly, "Well, Honey, it's certainly a surprise to see you down here at the office -- did you wear the underwear I bought for you last night? The black lace ones? Don't want to be underdressed for our lunchtime tryst, now do we?"

I turned as red as Jameson does on Deadline day.

After some hefty explaining (none of which made any sense to me, but Ian seemed to buy it), he took me out for lunch at an understated French bistro. I let him. He took the "joke" in stride, saying that he admired my moxie for daring to fabricate such an elaborate hoax. Conversation was polite; discretionary. We parted afterward and went our separate ways, each a bit more trusting of the other than we had been before.

But something's changed...irrevocably.
I'm powerless to stop it.
Moreover, if I could, I don't think I'd want to.

Current mood: flirty

Thursday, March 6, 2003

9:20AM - a late night at work

Kyle moved about the lab as quiet as a wind whispering through the trees. Set on finding some way to get back at Osborn he shuffled through fileing cabinets through chemical refidgerators and everything else in sight. Being ever so cautious as to put everything back exactly where it belonged.
Security didn't mind him being there since he did have clearance for access to even the most secret of experiments and thought nothing of his late night at work.

Finding the major components for some real havoc he took note as to where each of them lay in hiding. Tonight the osborn facility would remain intact. But soon...very soon....it wouldn't.

Current mood: determined

Wednesday, March 5, 2003

2:05AM - at what cost / does love reign?

Peter Parker stared at his rumpled reflection with a combination of exhaustion and dogged anger. Soot smeared his left cheek, his skin still claimed the musky odor of smoke and carbon. God, I look like a refugee, he intoned, doing his best to wipe the pale black smudge from his face before any of the doctors noticed and started to ask questions.

Ducking out of the men's room, Peter moved along the dun-yellow hospital corridor, trying to piece together the events of the last few weeks...days...hours. Though he tried, no amount of scientific reasoning could summon "why" from the cracked depths of his psyche. No test tube could hold the entirety of his heart; no bunsen burner could flame high enough to touch the vast capacity of his rage...his fear.

He stopped at the threshold to MJ's hospital room, watching the procession of nurses and aids filter in, doing "medical things". Mary-Jane, face serene like that of an angel's, lie unfettered in the hospital bed, a tangle of IV lines flowing from her pale forearms. Her russet hair fanned about her on the pillow like a flaming halo, ginger lashes resting upon the arcs of high cheekbones. "She's doing well -- amazingly well," the Doctor had told him, as if any doubt to the redhead's ability to survive had been in question, "A few bumps and bruises, some weight-loss. Whatever happened to her, thank God that Spider-Man got her out of it. A few days of rest and she'll be fine...physically, that is."

Guilt set a pretty table in the young hero's heart; a banquet courtesy of one yellow-eyed devil.

Images floated before Peter's eyes, like the flared spokes of a pinwheel:

They had met in the shadows of "The Ruins". Like Rome, such a space once grand had met a harsh downfall laced with distrust and malcontent. The Goblin had been perched atop a great stone column, jade fingertips clutching the gray like the talons of some great predator.

"Looking for this, Spider-Man?" That chilling voice accompanied the trademark sneer, the Goblin's trump card displayed as he revealed Mary-Jane Watson: bound, gagged, and decidedly unconscious.

Anger bubbled up within Spider-Man's chest like some acid, eating away at his rationale. "Let her go, Goblin. This is between you and me."

"But of COURSE it is," the Goblin glossed, taking a step forward on the ledge, spreading his hands like a preacher to the masses. "But it seems you weren't exactly willing to come FORWARD without a little INCENTIVE, now were you!"

What followed was a storm of kicks, punches, and jabs; each man unwilling to lower his hackles for the other. Spider-Man managed to lift MJ from the ruins and web them both to safety -- Mary-Jane to Sacred Heart first and foremost. The Goblin loomed behind, smoke filling the hollows of his ghastly mask like a lover's caress. The voice still echoed in Peter's ear:

"Next time, HERO..."NEXT time."

Peter Parker moved around the medical throng that was jostling for the door, in turn stepping into the relative quiet of MJ's hospital room. A series of monitors kept pace with her heartrate and blood-pressure; aharmonic "blips" the only sound in the cool twilight.

He moved to the chair at her bedside and lowered himself into its supportive embrance. A few moments of pensive silence passed before he shunned the luxury of the seat for the floor, assuming a prayerful kneel beside the young woman's beside. His hand slipped along the crisp sheets to lay across her own, the warmth from that contact rising to his cheeks and stinging his eyes with tears.

"I'm so sorry..." his voice edged on a whisper, bordered on prayer.

The night nurse stepped to the threshold, her pale eyes weary from an evening spent battling for control over the territories of life and death. She was assigned to inform all visitors that visiting hours were over, the tart phrase turning itself over again and again in her mouth like a broken recording. When she saw the pale young woman and the man at her bedside, her voice faltered. Blending with the beginning rain upon the window pane was the soft sound of sobbing.

Sympathy, an unfamiliar hue, passed over the old nurse's face. Wordlessly she turned from the room, closing the thick door behind her.

Current mood: drained

Friday, February 28, 2003

10:13AM - Noontime Noodlings.

Parker hasn't been in the office for a couple of days now. I heard he was jonesin' for that Watson girl that went missing...something about an alleged abduction. What? By aliens? No, no...by "not-so-little green men" -- or "goblins" -- whichever you prefer.

In Peter's stead, Jameson's upped the workload. Elliot Adams -- the photographer chick I wrote about a few entries back -- has been trying to cover both her assignments and Parker's. I have to give her credit for that.

I covered the WTC design announcement yesterday morning. McDermott was there on the panel, smiling indulgently with that 50-billion watt grin. I sat a few rows back and on the outside so that I could be as far away from his line of vision as possible. It worked; that is, until after the announcement was over. He came off the stage and slid in my path as I was walking out the door.

"Looking for a scoop, Mizz Sinclair?"

I smirked, "I already have one, Mizzzter McDermott."

He chuckled and leaned against the door jamb, "I believe you still owe me dinner...how about it? Off the record, of course."

"Of course," I said sourly, trying to make eye-contact with El so that she could rescue me from this situation.

An investor came up behind me, sidling between us and thrusting his greasy palm toward McDermott's face. Ian gave me a look of amused repentance and shrugged, mouthing the words "I'll call you" while simultaneously fending off the eager investor. I rolled my eyes and shuffled out, helping Elliot gather her camera equipment and pack it in the back of the taxi.

On the ride back to the Bugle I fanned through my notes and began to pen out the makings of my column in the margins. El kept her gaze pinned out the window, watching the buildings rush by in a swirling torrent. We made the evening edition and got to go home early. I fine-tuned my Daedalus article and finished up some of the paperwork regarding the welfare status in the city. Routine. Duty. Repeat.

I almost found myself wishing McDermott would call...but kept dismissing myself of the notion that he would. Those spoon-licking higher-ups can't even operate a telephone, let alone carry on an extensive conversation that doesn't involve talking about "what so-and-so did on his yacht last summer".

Still, it would be nice to hear his voice again...

...as annoying as it is.

Current mood: busy

Wednesday, February 26, 2003

12:31AM - ...life is but a dream...

Sheets of rain poured down on New York City, refusing to disappear down drains that were already filled with half-melted snow, obscuring vision, and generally making life miserable. But for Harry Osborn, as he sped down one of the city's local freeways, trying to keep up with the car he was following, the important thing was that he couldn't see. No, correction, he could see. Assuming you counted the watery blur of black and orangy-yellow from the occasional street lamp, accented by the constant clacking of windshield wipers, as vision.

And Harry didn't.

Holding on to the steering wheel for dear life, the younger Osborn leaned forward, attempting to get a better view of the car he was following or, perhaps, the road. Neither came, and frustration found its way to his features, not for the first time that night.

"Damn it, Peter," he mumbled, eyes narrowing in concentration and annoyance.

Earlier that night, his roommate, Peter Parker, had asked him to follow him somewhere. Where exactly, Harry wasn't sure. Whether it was because the other boy hadn't told him, or because he just couldn't be bothered to break his concentration in this weather, he couldn't remember. And for that reason, the auburn-haired youth pinned it on the weather. The weather was too bad, he couldn't be expected to try and remember what Peter had said, though half of him wanted to try to remember why he had agreed to this. He had known how bad the weather had been when the two of them set out.

Beeping drew him out of his train of thought, and his eyes made out the blurs of taillights directly in front of him. Not Peter's though, the metal around the lights was too light to be Peter's dark car. Either way, however, his foot found the breaks swiftly, but the young Osborn's car did not stop - the water on the road wouldn't allow it. So Harry tried the next best thing. Swerving.

Turing the wheel like a madman, he managed to escape a crash just barely, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. Now he had to worry about slowing down for the wicked curve in the road up ahead that he could just make out in the rainy blur. Again, he turned the wheel, foot riding the break steadily, all knowledge of driving in the rain he had learned at school fluttering out the window in his near panic.

This time, however, his wild attempt to escape an accident didn't work. This time, the wetness of the road made his car skid towards the curve - and the ditch beyond it - instead of away.

And as his car slid helplessly towards the curve, the rain stopped dead, allowing him to make out Peter's car. Peter's car, which sat safely on the road's shoulder. Peter's car, which had Pete himself hanging out the window, calling to the young Osborn, as if protesting his spin out would actually get him to stop. Instead, however, Harry just continued to glide down the rain slick road in what felt like slow motion.

I'm going to die, Harry thought, taking a final glance at what would be his fate before closing his eyes. It's over.

The sound of shattering glass a second later, however, caused his eyes to open again. He was still skidding towards the ditch - no, now the car was falling into it - but the air seemed thick somehow, slowing time. Beyond that, above him, feet still firmly planted on the road was his father, arm extended, hand offered to his son.

"Harry!"

"Dad!" he called back, his words falling into the ditch, as though they had been weighted down.

"Grab on, Harry!"

Fingers that were now wet with rain that had suddenly started up again reached out to wrap around his father's hand, only to miss. And, still in slow motion, the earth continued to reach up for him and his car, distancing him from the one thing that could save him. Not Liz, not Peter, but his own father.

"Dad!" the younger Osborn shouted again, this time more out of fear than relief.

Norman's reply came in the form of something he had heard his father say the day before. "The offer still stands. ...But you have to show me that you want it."

"Please, don't go. Don't leave me again."

Reaching out a second time, Harry's hand found his father's and in a single lift, Norman had pulled his son out of the falling car. Time snapped back into place, and a second later, something crunched loudly in the pit below, the pit that he had until just seconds before been falling into.

He was safe, his father had saved him, not Peter. Not Peter.

It was with that thought that Harry snapped awake suddenly. Blinking, his eyes searched his empty room at Tudor Hills for the rain, or the car he had been driving, or his father. But none of the things he had been looking for seemed to be there, seemed to even exist. As the disorientation of dreaming passed, the younger Osborn realized that it had been just that. A dream. Yet, somehow, he felt that it was a message. A warning. And that brought a frown to his face.

Maybe his father had been right...

Current mood: rattled

Monday, February 24, 2003

10:59PM - Earlier that evening ...

Not even an hour before Daedalus observed the Green Goblin's unmasking on the roof of Tudor Hills, the jade-armored menace had been busying himself with another task at hand ...

Osborn, I don't see why you have to make ME do your ethical bullshit.
I told you
, his arguably better half countered, there's more to it than just the mess with Mary. The man had a severe lack of respect for his higher-ups. And anyone who thinks he can tell us what to do ...
Deserves to die. I concede this once, Osborn. Besides. It'll be a good warm-up for this evening. ... Tonight, the Spider DIES.


Arcing the glider downwards, winding around the silhouette of the Oscorp building, the Goblin touched it down in an alleyway and strode out down the near-deserted streets, toward a small newsstand.

Its proprietor, Derek, muttered various obscenities as he took another drink from the bottle in his left hand, trying to fix the door to the newsstand with his right. "I shouldn't be here this fuckin' late," he muttered. "... fuckin' Jeanoit and her devil-worshippin' ..."

"You're right. You shouldn't. ... It's dangerous after dark in New York," the Goblin glossed, stepping up behind him.

Derek whipped around, bracing himself against the wall. "Th' fuck!?" His eyes widened. "Holy shit! Ohh, SHIT! What did I ever do to you!?"

A low chuckle issued from behind the mask. "Oh ... you went and did something Reeeeeally stupid. You went and pissed me off."

"You ... I don't even KNOW you, man!" Derek shook his head frantically.

"Of course you do." With that, the Goblin grabbed him by the throat, holding him aloft. "And you're going to wish you didn't."

The newsstand owner squirmed, shrieking for a moment, until realization mingled with the panic in his eyes. "... No ... no ... you can't be ..." He swallowed thickly, eyes glazed over with terror.

The Green Goblin let the yellow mirrors lift from his eyes, and they crinkled up at the corners as he grinned wickedly behind the mask. "You really should treat your employees better. Even more ... you should listen when people give you advice." With that, he snapped Derek's neck, tossing him inside the broken newsstand as if he were a bundle of the papers he once sold. "Otherwise ...." He jumped lithely onto his glider as it slid up to him, chuckling. ".....you're better off DEAD."

Current mood: predatory

10:34PM - A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

A crescent moon slowly rose above the darkened city. A faint sound could be heard as a tall figure zipped about the skies. He came to rest on a rooftop taking the form of the gargoyles sitting next to him. The figure sat motionless watching the streets below just listening.
He lifted his head toward the skies as he heard a sound all too familiar. It sounded almost like his boots, but had a deeper pitch. In the distance he could see a figure soaring smoothly on a bat shaped glider. He moved to stand but thought better of it and remained motionless in the shadows.
There he is. But he’s damn near impossible to beat in the sky. How do I get an advantage? What to do…
He watched as the glider sped towards him weaving through the buildings. It turned past the building he was perched on and sped onward into the night.
Wonder where he thinks he’s going…
Waiting until the figure was at a safe distance he fell from his perch activating his boots and hovering for a moment finalizing his plan.
Can’t hurt to find out…..
With that he disappeared into the shadows after him, always keeping far enough away so as not to be detected.

As the figure slowed to a coast he angled toward a familiar mansion, landing on the roof.
I know this place…..this is Osborn’s place. Aw damn… he’s taking another hostage.
Stowing the glider, he crossed his arms and gazed at the skyline for a moment in an almost possessive manner.
What is he doing? Daedalus froze for fear of being seen, then quickly moved behind a smoke stack when Goblin turned away.
That’s when the Goblin removed his helmet, wiped his brow and headed down the stairs and into the building.
Underneath the hard expressionless mask a look of disbelief swam across Daedalus’s countenance.
Osborn…?

Current mood: shocked

1:53PM - Homo homini lupus.

Peter scratched a fingernail over the NYC sewer system, tracing the outlined alcoves and endless passageways with carefully controlled anger. Maps were spread out before him on the low desk; sewer system routes, subway maps, landfill sites. Each one was a hopeful means toward a breakthrough in MJ's location.

The NYPD had been less than helpful throughout the entire ordeal. And MJ's parents, though driven to protect their daughter through the veil of their arguing, seemed not to care about her disappearance.

It's left to me, Peter mused, a heavy weight settling upon his heart.

The phone rang, jostling the young hero from his reverie.

He lunged across the tabletop, elbow sending several of the maps fluttering to the polished wood floor, "...hello?"

"You've been waiting for that ring, haven't you."

Cold dread cast itself upon him -- a smokescreen that clouded his vision with swirling emotions of rage and fear.

"Waiting to know where she is. Well, tell you what. I'll tell you. But you have to come and get her."

Peter gripped the edge of the desk, his voice raw, "Where is she?" His pulse suddenly took up a very uncomfortable residence in his throat.

"Why don't I tell you where you can come and pick her up, if you want her?"

"You'll pay for this, N--" he corrected himself, " -- Goblin." He had almost said "Norman"...a fact that chilled him. How could two lives stir in the same man? One good, one evil. One light, one dark. When did the line between them first begin to blur? The darkness take hold like a lover, whispered promises in an ear that had forgotten how to follow and not lead. "Where is she?"

"Well ...." his voice turned mocking, a parody of Peter's own faux pas, "Pider-man ... Think about this. ... Where death found me .... it'll find you, too. And if you aren't there by one this morning .... it might just take Mary Jane instead".

The roar of the dialtone slashed at his ear, a pitiful moan. He gripped the receiver in his hand, knuckles turning bone-white. He supposed his face had turned white as well -- a tingling loss of blood stirred the nerve endings at the tip of his nose and his cheeks.

"I'll be there..."

His hollow voice hummed in hue with the dial tone, devoid.

No...not "me"...

He turned his eyes toward the skyline of New York City

Spider-Man...

Current mood: determined

Sunday, February 23, 2003

12:56AM - In Nomina Atra

A shaft of light pierced the darkness of the room, but for just an instant. Mary Jane Watson raised her head, hoping that it was the figure who'd been bringing her food lately, the one who had been allowing her a few creature comforts in her state of captivity.

But no ... the brief flash of light had definately glinted off of something green.

"Hello, my dear. ... I suppose you're waiting for Spider-man to come and save you ... And you would be correct. He WILL come to save you. When I tell him to. WHERE I tell him to. Because he knows that I can kill you ... and that I WILL if he doesn't." The Goblin paused, allowing himself a small, indulgent chuckle. "But you know what? Even though he WILL come ... he won't save you." Glee permeated his tone of voice. "Because I'm going to kill him! ... And then, who knows? Probably you too! ... It's gonna be a grand old time. ... Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a message to leave."

Another brief flash of light, and he was gone. Mary Jane rested her forehead on her knees, terror-numb, wondering if it were the last light she would ever see.

Current mood: predatory

Monday, February 17, 2003

9:58PM - my friend; mine own enemy

Peter buried his head in his hands and sighed deeply. How many days now? Four...six? He'd lost count. Aunt May had phoned some time during the week; offered to bring over a casserole. Harry had taken the call, insisting that they were both "doing fine".

Fine...

MJ...

He had exhausted himself in pursuit of her. His muscles ached almost as much as his heart did, and both seemed on the verge of giving out. Yet he persisted; that dogged determination not allowing him to rest but for a moment.

Once, in the night, he thought he heard the cackle of the Goblin...the "whurr" of his glider as it poised for attack.

Only the wind...

"I'm coming, Mary-Jane...don't lose hope..."

...never lose hope.

Current mood: crushed

Sunday, February 9, 2003

1:16AM - Web-woven.

*ThWiP!*

Spider-Man released a narrow line of webbing, using his momentum to curl into an arc atop Rockafeller Center. Dusk was settling across New York City and the enroaching darkness threatened to ensconce even the brightest of Broadway.

Still no sign of the Goblin....or MJ

Guilt welled up inside of him like a dam about to burst.

"It's my fault...mine..."

Raising his eyes to the skyline, his acute senses could discern the foreboding outline of Tudor Hills -- rising against the canvas of night.

Sucking a breath into his lungs, Spider-Man leaped from the balcony and swung toward Norman Osborn's fortress.

Saturday, February 8, 2003

5:10PM - High Flying Hell

Elliot Adams lazily swirled her finger in a tiny mound of powdered sugar and licked her finger, dotting it in white. She sat at a table in the newsroom, with all the pictures from the darkroom spread before her, listening boredly to layout editors bitch at each other.

Her less than mind-taxing reverie was broken, however, when almost simultaneously, a crime beat reporter and Jameson stormed into the room, barking orders. In a whirl, Elliot had been awoken to action, realizing what was going on.

Fumbling for her camera strap, she threw it around her neck, latching onto the group who flew down the stairs and out the door of the elevator.

"We have no idea where he is. We have no idea who the girl is. Hell, he hasn't been around for ages!"

Elliot shook her head, confused, leaning over in the crush of people to face the boyish reporter who had spoken this incredulous statement.

"What the hell are you talking about!? I thought we were following a chase, a-a- kidnap attempt?"

The entire throng sort of stared at her in disbelief and the reporter shook his head.

"We ARE Adams. Look, you weren't here. We're on the trail of that Green Goblin, he's got a girl!"

"In his car?"

"On a fucking glider, you-," but he was cut off as the cabbie swerved, stopping in their tracks and pointed out the windows. The journalists followed his finger, staring in horror as the Goblin, cackling, carried a screaming redhead off in his arms. People jumped out of their cars, watching as well and Elliot bit her lip, raising her camera to the heavens, wishing she was anywhere but watching that.

The shutter clicked.

"Where is Parker when you need him?"

Current mood: shocked

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