Spiderman: Venom

Gwen was cheerfully humming as she browsed through a furniture catalog. It was all Swedish, assemble-it-yourself type, but the quality was good and had an added bonus: she already pictured herself asking Peter to put it together for her, then enticing him into a shower as a well-earned reward.

A soft knock came at her door. "Gwen, honey, can we talk?"

She stood up and opened the door. Since she'd hit puberty, her dad had walked in on her room once without knocking, which earned him a good yell. Since then, he'd kept a respectful distance regarding her room.

"I want to talk to you about Peter," he said, settling into her computer chair as she took a seat at the end of the bed. "I got a troubling report. He was arrested."

Gwen rolled her eyes, letting out a groan. "Let me guess: Flash?"

"That's beside the point. I want you to stop spending time with him. An arrest for a violent crime is no small matter. What if he lost his temper around you? What if there's more to this than Peter has let on?"

"Dad," Gwen replied firmly, "Peter tells me everything, and there's nothing more than Flash being a jerk."

George raised an eyebrow. "Watch the language. I get that you're frustrated, but there's no need to swear. And while I know you trust Peter, remember, it takes two to get into a fight. He has hit Flash before."

"I know, and he was provoked." Gwen knew the truth: Flash had hit Peter first and would have left him bruised in that alley if Peter hadn't defended himself.

"That's not the point. He still hit him, and I just want you safe." He turned to look at the page of furniture. "So, did you finally find a place?"

Gwen nodded, trying not to look guilty.

"Good. Let me know where it is. I don't want you renting somewhere shady."

Gwen snorted. "Seriously? Is that even a word?"

George laughed. "Fine, not shady. How about uncool? Or, what was it... totally bogus?"

Gwen rolled her eyes. "I will. Now, can you let me handle Pete?"

George stood and moved toward the door. "I just want you safe." He smiled, closing the door behind him.

Principal Walters had been at Midtown High for two decades, witnessing all sorts of students—some stellar, some difficult—and then there was Flash Thompson and Peter Parker.

If he'd acted faster, maybe he could have prevented the rivalry between them. One was an outstanding honor student; the other, a talented athlete.

Together, they could have eclipsed all the competition. The trophy case could have been filled with achievements, leaving lasting memories not only for the students but for the entire school.

Now, as the school year neared its end, the case stood empty.

He didn't even feel like displaying the minor placement awards they'd earned—a final, hollow reminder of the mess he'd brought on the school by allowing his assistant to handle Flash. He'd been swayed by Harrison Thompson's influence and hid signs of misconduct.

Sure, Harrison made large contributions to the board every year. Only Norman Osborn donated more, but Osborn didn't let Harry act out of control.

Flash had been given free rein and had run wild. Allegations of bullying and drug use had been ignored and swept away.

Accepting those checks, he hadn't realized he was making a deal with the devil.

He looked at the empty trophy case once more and sighed. Peter's lawyer had come by to gather statements, but even now, it was too late.

Despite the evidence he'd provided, he knew he would likely be asked to retire. No high school would take him on as a principal now, and he was past the age for classroom teaching.

The silent, empty school halls were haunting at night. As he made his last rounds for the term, he accepted that this would be his final year.

A locker door slammed shut, making Principal Walters jump. Someone was in the school—probably some thrill-seeker hoping to snap photos of the hall where Flash Thompson's reputation had crumbled.

Feeling an unusual burst of courage, he peeked around the corner. The locker door swung open and shut. He frowned, noting the number on the locker next to him and then counting along. This wasn't Peter's locker, where Flash had attacked him. No—it was Flash Thompson's locker. It hung open, and from the crumpled notes scattered on the floor, someone had been rummaging through it. Venom observed the principal through the open window. He had considered intimidating the man, relishing the idea of making him squirm and scream, but then he reconsidered. Being a principal was just a job—it didn't pay well and held little prestige, just a few fleeting moments of recognition.

Venom didn't need to do anything to this man. The defeated expression on his face, as he looked at the empty trophy case, spoke volumes. The principal had broken himself, failed his school, and nothing Venom could do would surpass that.

As he swung off into the night, Venom tasted bitterness. He wanted vengeance, but tormenting an old man wasn't it. He let it go—at least for now.

His next target would soothe his anger. He would hunt down Flash.

Venom moved through New York's skyline without a care. Flash's address wasn't public, but Flash liked to boast about how his father owned an apartment in Central Park Tower on Fifth Avenue. The building was nearly as famous as Stark Tower.

He launched himself toward it and, given its height, began to climb.

We will get revenge on Flash, he thought. He ruined our life.

Scaling the building, he peered into each window until he found Flash lying on his bed, arm over his face, his leg encased in a new cast.

Venom crawled around until he found an open window. Though a safety latch was meant to keep it secure, Venom slid it open with a swipe of his claws.

He climbed in, moving low, listening for others. He could hear Harrison speaking on the phone in another room, but Venom knew he could slip in and out. If Harrison interfered, it would just mean taking down two targets at once.

Staying close to the floor, he crept through the apartment. It was well-furnished, and after dealing with Flash, Venom half-thought about wrecking the place—a fitting retaliation for all that Flash had ruined.

He stopped when he heard Harrison leaving an office, heading toward Flash's room.

"I just got off the phone with one of my men. Parker's off the hook. He's got a damn lawyer!" Venom heard something crash.

"A lawyer! I thought you said he was a nobody."

Flash bolted upright, gasping in pain as he scrambled away from his father. "He is. I swear, he is."

"Eugene, I thought I raised you better. You have everything—money, power. But right now, it's all borrowed. Borrowed from me." Venom heard a slap. "And you're blowing it!"

"Dad, please," Flash whimpered.

"Be a man!" Another slap. "I didn't raise you to be weak." Another slap.

Venom crouched lower, hearing Flash's stifled sobs.

"You're a disgrace, Eugene. One nobody, and look at you. One loser, and you can't even handle him. What are you going to do at Oscorp?" Another slap. "Listen to me—they'll chew you up and spit you out."

Venom listened to Flash's quiet sobs as Harrison berated him.

"I love you, son. I'm hard on you so that when you're in my shoes, you'll be tough and unstoppable. You understand that, don't you?"

If Flash replied, Venom didn't hear it, but the bed creaked as Harrison stood.

"Clean yourself up. There's a gala, and you're coming with me."

Venom heard the door handle turn, so he backed away toward the open window.

"And get that girl something suitable to wear. I don't care if you have that blonde girl and her at the same time—a man deserves to do as he wants—but she needs to know her place. I heard that rumor about your slip-up, and it's embarrassing enough. She's good-looking enough, so I want an heir by year's end."

Venom heard the door to Flash's room close. "And if you can't manage that, I'll take care of it myself," Harrison muttered, his words fading into a barrage of curses aimed at Flash.

Venom had heard enough. He swiftly dove back out the window and swung away toward the warehouse.

Venom sat on the warehouse roof, processing everything he had heard.

He hadn't known Harrison was such trash, nor that Flash's behavior stemmed from trying to live up to the expectations of a misogynistic relic who thought money solved everything.

As the symbiote skin receded, Peter reached for the clean clothes he'd left on the roof, then stood, looking out over the bay.

He didn't care. Flash had his own issues, but so did everyone else.

Peter had never raised his voice to Aunt May, nor had he used Flash's bullying as an excuse to harm others.

No, he still despised Flash. And as he looked at the package he had taken from Flash's locker, he knew he still had to make him pay. He'd just do it differently.

MJ glanced at her phone.

My dad has a work event soon. We need to go, and you'll need a new dress.

She knew it would be another dull event for the rich, full of talk about stocks and portfolios. She also knew the dress would be low-cut and revealing.

She was used to being shown off like an accessory. Flash never introduced her as anything other than "my girlfriend."

The door cracked open, and a slurred voice came from the hallway. "Who was that?"

"It was Eugene, Dad. He wants me to go to a gala with him."

Her father grunted. "Did you ask him about college yet?"

MJ fought the urge to sigh. "No, Dad. I don't want—"

Her door burst open. "You don't get to want. He's rich, Mary, and he could solve all our problems."

All your problems, she thought, catching the smell of alcohol on him.

He'd been fired again last week for drinking at work. When he stayed sober, he was fine, but that never lasted.

He always laughed it off, calling himself a "high-functioning alcoholic," but anyone who saw him drunk knew he wasn't. He was unpleasant sober and even worse drunk.

"If you'd just let him—" he started.

"Dad!" she interrupted, knowing what he was about to suggest.

He snorted. "Too good for you, huh? You're not going to college, Mary. We can't afford it, so unless that pretty face opens some doors, you're not going anywhere."

She knew that, but opening doors was still better than opening her legs. She wanted a real career, not to end up raising a kid with someone like Flash. She didn't want kids at all.

"Eugene Thompson is our way out of this dump, and the sooner you accept that and hook him, the better. You're not getting any younger, Mary, and that face won't last forever."

He sat on the edge of her bed, patting her ankle. Wrapped in her blanket, she hid her disgust.

"I'm just looking out for you, Mary. Eugene Thompson's a good boy. He's rich, attractive, and likes you. Take what he's offering. Life is hard, and second chances are rare."

He patted her ankle again.

"Love you, kitten," he said, standing and closing the door.

MJ sat in the dark, fighting back tears at her father's words.

She was more than a trophy for that rich jerk and more than a bank account for the man pretending to be her father.

Kitten? She was Mary Jane Watson, and she was a tiger.

A few days later, J. Jonah Jameson received a package. It contained photos and vials, left at the front desk without a name or return address. As he examined the contents, he frowned and took a puff from his cigar.

Some punk kid on steroids, and this idiot expects me to publish without any proof.

He pressed the intercom on his phone. "Elizabeth, get me the security guard who brought this up, and tell him he's fired."

He shook his head. Sensational journalism was for hacks. If they'd provided proof that this "Flush Tampons" kid was doping, of course, he'd run with it. But this was just junk. He tossed the box into the trash.

"Remind me never to hire anyone with handwriting that bad," he grumbled.

Flush Tampons. As if he'd waste his time figuring out who that was supposed to be.