Spiderman: Venom

Flash kept his promise, and Peter only received some angry looks here and there, but nothing more. His life settled into a routine. He went to school without interruptions, other than the time he spent with Gwen.

He also kept working, reducing the pile of tasks by half over a span of two weeks. As a thank-you, Aleksei allowed Peter to look around the offices and pick out some furniture—with a discount, of course. When the upstairs pile began to diminish, Aleksei assigned him to handle larger items.

Aleksei had recently gotten a shipment of old, American-style fridge-freezers—big units meant to fit into kitchen walls. These had been forcibly removed, wires cut, with bits of plastic wrap still on some. Peter figured they were likely stolen, but as always, he didn't ask questions and didn't mind.

It took Peter most of the night to disassemble them and get each one working.

"Nice job, kid," Aleksei said as Peter finished wiping down the last fridge. "So, how's the new place?" he asked, flicking away his cigarette.

Peter grinned. "It's great. But, uh, you wouldn't happen to have a water heater, would you?" Peter extended his hands to form a box shape. "About this big and this wide?" He chuckled as Aleksei laughed.

"You know, the city doesn't pay a lot for places like that, and there's barely any profit for all the hours we put in."

Peter smirked. "I know, but if it's the one from the roof, I already know it fits. A new one costs around four hundred. How about two?"

Aleksei gave him a look, shaking his head as a smile broke through. "I'm teaching you some bad habits here. How about one, and when you get tenants, you send 'em here to buy their stuff?"

Peter laughed. "Except all three tenants I've got are high school girls," he said, raising an eyebrow at Aleksei.

Aleksei roared with laughter, giving Peter a solid pat on the shoulder. "Definitely teaching you bad habits. Come on, it's still out back."

Aleksei led Peter to the massive boiler assembly, still bolted in place. Thankfully, it was crated with handles.

"You need a hand?" But Peter sized up the box, got a solid grip, and lifted it.

"Nope, I'm all good." He didn't notice Aleksei frowning.

How strong is this kid? Aleksei thought. Fixing that place up must've built him some muscle. With no time to dwell on it, he shrugged and went back to his office, sitting down to review a diagram on his desk.

The phone on his desk rang three times, then stopped. With a sigh, he pulled out a cell phone from a drawer and dialed the only number saved. "What? You agreed not to call unless it was serious."

"It is. Where's Bennie?" It was Norman Osborn. Aleksei had worked with him whenever something needed to be done off the books. Osborn paid well, even for silence. It was a good arrangement—until Osborn started interfering with his people.

"Oh, him? You mean Bennie the rat bastard? You set me up to have the cops and Feds all over me. Well, if you want to see him, better put on your swim trunks."

"Aleksei, he was a good man. You had no right—"

"Yeah, sure. And you would've just put in a new boss, huh? Tough break, Osborn, tough break. So, are you calling to chew me out, or what?"

"Don't say my name. Are we on track for Friday?"

"All set and ready to go on your word, boss."

"Good. Pull this off, and you'll get another shipment like the last. No witnesses, and I'll double it. But if this goes south, I'll make sure you and Bennie catch up."

The line went dead. Aleksei tore open the phone, pulled out the SIM card, and lit it with a lighter.

"Yeah, yeah, jerk."

From a rooftop across the street, the Black Cat continued surveying the scrapyard. She had set up micro-cameras throughout, ensuring nothing escaped her notice.

Her target, Aleksei Sytsevich, had just ended his call, looking irritated. She hadn't risked entering his office yet—someone was always there day and night. Worse, there was a new kid.

She couldn't decide if he was a spy or a plant, but he seemed too young to be anything more than an errand runner.

She'd watch for him the next time he showed up for work. Young and likely strapped for cash, he could be her way into the office. For now, she observed as he hauled a large box from the yard. No car meant he was local and shouldn't be too hard to track. Probably just another clueless kid needing a lesson.

Across the city, Norman Osborn had just set down his phone. Dealing with Sytsevich always left a sour taste in his mouth.

Damn scumbags, he thought. Benedict was a good man.

A knock on his office door pulled him from his thoughts, and his son, Harry, entered after a brief pause.

"Dad? Uh, can I talk to you about Pete?"

Norman scowled. "No, Harry, you can't. I don't care about high school problems, and if this continues, you'll finish with a private tutor."

"But, Dad. Pete helped me with chemistry. He got my grades up. Couldn't you do something? Your name's on the building, remember?" Harry pleaded.

"Son, I could. But Harrison Thompson has influence on the board," Norman said, drumming his fingers on the desk. The boy was testing his patience. "Remember, it's my name on the building, but we still answer to shareholders. It's just one kid—Peter will get over it, move on, and he'll be fine. Focus on your own future."

Norman leaned back, disappointed. Harry never grasped the bigger picture. Peter was nobody—even if brilliant, he'd end up working for someone like him. Harry was just wasted potential.

"Son, you carry the Osborn name, and with that come responsibilities. Your success depends on seeing the bigger picture. Right now, aligning with the Thompson boy will yield more benefits than with Parker."

"Okay, Dad, if you think it's best," Harry replied reluctantly, but he knew better than to argue. His father's mind was made up.

Norman dismissed him with a wave. He had more important matters than some childish notion of rescuing a friend.

After closing the door to his father's study, Harry's usual stoic expression turned into a grin. Something had changed with Peter, something that didn't align with Harry's plans. It was time to distance himself.

Perfect, he thought. If his other plans worked out this well, he'd soon be heading the board instead of his father.

"That went well, Mr. Osborn," came a smooth, feminine voice from the shadows outside Norman's office.

"What do you want, Liv?" Harry asked.

"Well, we got the footage you asked for. Here." A gloved hand extended from the shadows, handing him a tablet. He pressed play on the pre-loaded video.

Harry watched as the intruder took photos in the genetics lab. The camera angle shifted, tracking the man as he moved through the building. The last segment showed him hiding from a guard. He peered over a desk and hit the emergency hatch release for cages one through twelve, letting each specimen out.

Harry growled, nearly throwing the tablet Liv had given him. Sample six scurried up and bit the man on the back of his hand before scuttling off.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

"Well, he's definitely Enhanced now, and although we did blood tests on the students, I'd bet money some of them are, too. Two passed out, and one reported feeling sick afterward. Your friend Peter was one of them."

Harry sighed. "Parker." Now he knew why Peter had been acting strange. He'd need to distance himself before things got out of hand. "Keep this quiet."

The woman retracted her hand into the shadows. "Oh, don't worry. Daddy dearest has no idea about your involvement."

Back at the warehouse, Peter felt an odd tingle and wondered if someone was talking about him. Shaking off the feeling, he picked up an egg. To practice his dexterity and strength, he'd started juggling, using eggs as they were delicate. He held them over a bowl so that if he crushed or dropped one, it wouldn't be a total loss.

Peter had just managed to juggle eight eggs when his phone buzzed with a text from Harry:

"Sorry, Pete. Dad isn't happy about you and Flash. I can't hang out with you anymore, and he's getting me a tutor. It's been great, though. Thanks. —Harry"

Peter crushed the egg in his hand, letting the rest fall onto the counter.

Ungrateful jerk.

He had tutored Harry—not just in one subject but helped him in math, sciences, and every other issue he'd had. But as soon as Flash got annoyed and probably whined to his dad, even Harry fell in line to please him.

Peter tossed the mess into the trash, full of broken eggshells. He'd make them pay—all of them.

Seeing the empty egg carton, Peter decided he needed more. Some fresh air would help clear his mind. He needed to think, to figure out his future once and for all. To hell with the rest of them.

His phone dinged, and although it was Gwen, he was still in no mood to talk.

"Sorry, still at work. Talk to you later."

At her home in their posh brownstone, Gwen looked at her phone and shrugged. Oh well.

Standing in front of a mirror, her phone camera ready to snap a picture, she thought better of it with Peter busy at work.

She ran her hands down her body, admiring the sleek black lingerie she'd bought for Peter's eighteenth birthday. She had planned to ask him out then but had chickened out. Now that they were together, he was going to lose it when he finally got to unwrap her.

Downstairs in his office, George Stacy looked over the report once more. Three costumed weirdos were causing havoc in his city, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.

The first report described a local thug, Flint Marko, who'd been beaten so badly his ribs were sticking out of his chest. Local EMTs reported he'd be dead within an hour if not treated. Whether he was still alive was unknown—Marko had vanished. This might be a homicide, not just a mugging gone wrong.

The report included a witness account of a huge man in an all-black suit with a white spider emblem on his chest, who had cracked a lame joke after smashing Marko into a wall.

Next, there was a report of a "fetish nightmare" wearing a whip and razor-sharp claws who had strung up Dillon Murphy, a local drug dealer. All they got from the barely coherent dealer was "big ass titties," repeated endlessly.

George rubbed his temples. Finally, the last "spider freak"—a red-and-blue-costumed character with webbing all over—was someone different. This one seemed to know police protocols, filmed the mugging he stopped, and restrained the suspect before calling the police.

He hated vigilantes for all these reasons. One was a brute, another a thrill-seeker, and the last, an overly righteous do-gooder who would likely end up getting himself—or someone else—killed.

He felt a headache coming on, and Gwen dating this Parker kid didn't make it any better.

The same reports had landed in J. Jonah Jameson's office, passed along through a web of bribes and contacts. He was eyeing a nervous young man holding yet another manila envelope.

"So, you got the photos?" the gray-haired, mustached man asked, puffing on his thick cigar.

"I do, Mr. Jameson." The man standing before him had at least put in some effort. His short, light-brown hair was neatly cut, his square yet attractive face freshly shaven. His suit could have been better, but at least it was a suit.

"Spider-Man, huh?" Jameson flipped through the photos, each one sharply capturing the vigilante. "A menace, that's what he is—taking jobs from our honest police."

"Uh, Mr. Jameson, sir…" The photographer handed over a file he'd obtained from a "source." "Spider-Man is the third vigilante this week, and, well… he's the nicest."

"What? He's a menace. What's your name again?"

"It's, uh, Brock, sir—Eddie Brock. And yes, he still restrained that mugger, sir, but look." Eddie Brock showed J. Jonah Jameson the three police reports. "He filmed everything to show he's not so bad, but these two…" He pointed to each report. "One had his chest crushed, and the other—" He flipped to the next page. "This one had a month's supply of LSD shoved into his mouth."

"Wow, three menaces. Brock, get me photos of all of them. Spider-Man, this Black Cat woman, and, uh… hmm, I'll think of something for the black one later. Got to be politically correct and all that." J.J. waved him off. "See HR for your pay, son. These are good, really good. Brock, right? Bring me more like this, and I'll make you full-time."

Eddie left the envelope on the desk, stealing a quick glance as he saw J.J. reading over his work. He sighed to himself as he left. He already had a full-time job—just right at the bottom. He hoped his big break would come with the editorial piece he'd submitted about the three vigilantes.

He'd already named them. Spider-Man was obvious, but Black Cat fit; she used a whip but slashed the dealer with claws and wore a black catsuit.

The last one, however, troubled Eddie. The spider design on his suit was unmistakable. Was he another test subject from Oscorp's spider experiments, or something even stranger?

Whatever the case, Eddie was sure they would cross paths sooner rather than later. Spider-Man and Tarantula seemed destined to be on opposite sides of the law.